THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A  Fifth  Avenue  Parade 

and 

Other  Poems 


A  Fifth  Avenue  Parade 

and 
Other  Poems 

By 

PERCY  STICKNEY  GRANT 


York 

Harper  SP  Bros. 

MCMXXII 


Copyright  1922  by 
Percy  Stickney  Grant 


Arranged  and  Printed  at 

The  Cheltenham  Press 

New  York 


TO 
RITA  H.  DEALBA  DE  ACOSTA 

AN    AMBITIOUS   AND   STIMULATING  INTELLIGENCE 

GIFTED   WITH   A    KNOWLEDGE  OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL 

A  TANAGRA  FIGURE  COME  TO  LIFE 

A  CAPTIVATING  COMPANION 


Explanatory  Note 


volume  contains  verses 
published  in  1905  in  AD 
MATREM,  now  out  of  print,  and 
about  as  many  more,  which 
have  not  before  been  published. 


Contents 

Page 

A  Fifth  Avenue  Parade I 

Welcome  Home       18 

Ad  Matrem 29 

The  Cambridge  School 35 

The  Radical 42 

The  Anarchist 44 

Dawn 47 

Benares 50 

At  Delhi  Gate 52 

The  Awakening  Soul      55 

The  Serving  Soul 64 

The  Wakeful  Bride 67 

A  City  of  Mills 71 

A  Nocturne 74 

Ellis  Island 80 

New  Year's  Eve  on  Broadway 83 

The  Patrol  Wagon      85 

The  Slate 86 

After  Forty  Years 87 

The  Hearth  Song 89 

Spring       91 

The  Search 92 

Loss 93 

The  Boy       94 


Page 

The  Garden  Walk  .    .    .  V. 95 

A  Composer 96 

The  Wanderer's  Song 97 

Substitution 98 

The  Band 99 

A  Tapestry 100 

A  Call  to  Prayer 101 

The  Musician 102 

The  Golden  Cross 103 

Lilacs 104 

The  Sphinx 105 

The  Waiting  Horseman 106 

Cophetua 107 

The  Last  Gift .   .  108 

At  The  Musical 109 

The  Sea  Garden      no 

What  Will  Love  Do? in 

Light  Lingers  Long 112 

Shadows 113 

A  Lancashire  Lover 114 

Compensation 117 

November 119 

Behind  The  Lotus-Flower 1 20 

The  Lover 121 

Hero  At  Sestos    ,                .                               ....  122 


Page 

Fuji-Yama 123 

Burd  Helen      124 

Two  Roses 125 

The  Rug 126 

The  Past 127 

The  Mourning  Lover 128 

Three  Baby  Verses 129 

Tankas 132 

Quatrains     . 133 

Neglected  Pastures 134 

Sonnets  of  Seasons 135 

An  Italian  Sonnet-Sequence 139 

Present  Day  Sonnets 150 

Street  Musicians 154 

Cuba  Libre 155 

Sophocles 156 

England 157 

The  Prophet 158 

The  Police  Court 159 

New  Hampshire      160 

To  Mme.  Helen  Hopekirk 161 

The  White  Hearse 162 

The  White  Slave 163 

Democracy 164 

The  Snow  Storm 165 


Page 

Camargo 166 

Progress 167 

The  Pacific 168 

Songs  from  The  Search  of  Belesarius 169 

7  he  Knight's  Song 

The  Girl's  Song 

The  Cypriot's  Song 
Song  from  The  Return  of  Odysseus 173 

Doris'  Song 


A  Fifth  Avenue  Parade 

I 

WASHINGTON  SQUARE 

A  STRANGER  ON  THE  SIDEWALK  TO  POLICEMAN  AT  CURB 

"What  is  this  silent,  dark  crowd 

Moving  in  fours, 

Reaching  so  far  up  the  road  ? 

Poor  folk  they  seem — 

Undersized,  pale  and  sad." 

POLICEMAN 

"Marching  to  the  graves 

Of  a  bunch  of  young  working  girls 

Burned  near  here, 

Seven  score  or  more, 

A  factory  fire." 

A  WOMAN  ON  THE  SIDEWALK  TO  THE  STRANGER 
"My  Lizzie  works  in  a  loft, 
Reached  by  a  wooden  stair, 
Soaking  with  oil  till  it  sweats. 
Sometime  she  too  will  burn, 
When  comes  her  fire-trap's  turn. 
God  help  us!" 


[i] 


II 

Parade,  march  on! 
Beating  the  death-march 
Solemn  with  foot-falls. 
Bands  do  not  play  for  you. 
Dirgeless  your  woe. 
Sorrow  propels  you. 

Flags  do  not  fly,  nor  banners  wave. 

Leaders,  officials,  sashes,  batons,  placards, 

None  are  here. 

Only  men  and  women,  in  their  best  clothing, 

Mostly  black, 

Marching. 

Some  with  umbrellas; 

Others,  women,  without  hats,  in  spite  of  the  rain, 

Rhythmic  tread,  the  asphalt  shining  with  wet. 

Bearded  men  with  haunted  faces. 

Deep  breasted  girls  with  abundant  hair. 

One  a  madonna  face — remote,  hopeless,  dazed — 

Mary  come  back  to  see  what  her  son's  death  availed. 


[2] 


Saturday  afternoon, 

Tramping  the  famous  Avenue  of  fashion, 

Reproach  stamped  in  their  route — 

No,  their  invasion. 

Motoring  wealth  held  up  by  their  ranks, 

Cannot  escape  the  sight. 

Perplexity  leads  them; 

Disappointment  is  in  their  faces. 

How  can  America  lure  and  neglect ; 

Invite  and  destroy? 

Worse  than  Nero  in  Rome! 

Christians  now  burn  Christians  and  Jews. 

Rich  Jews  burn  poor  Jews  and  Christians. 

Clothing  is  cheaper  so. 

Perished,  yes,  perished  is  America! 
Liberty's  torch  is  a  wrecker's  decoy. 
Pirates'  and  murderers'  prey  are  we. 
Where,  O  my  God,  is  the  hope  of  the  world! 


[3] 


Ill 

Locked  was  the  door,  they  could  not  escape. 

Against  it  they  flung  their  bodies; 

It  did  not  yield. 

Greed,  scowling,  stood  at  the  door, 

Barring  the  way. 

Flame  pursued  them,  wound  round  their  knees; 

Burned  their  hair  and  embraced  them; 

Leered  as  they  shuddered  and  shrieked. 

Smoke  screened  them  from  one  another. 

Poured  bitter  blackness  down  their  throats. 

Blinded  they  fled. 

Aflame,  yet  in  darkness,  they  pushed  to  the  windows, 

High  above  the  street. 

Clutching  each  other  they  leaped  out, 

Blazing  downward  like  falling  stars. 

Pressed  together,  their  young  breasts, 
Furiously  beat  with  consternation. 
Death  flew  laughingly  past  the  windows; 
Dove  down  with  them  as  they  fell; 
Shrieking  a  warning  lest  any  stay  their  fate; 
Kept  clear  the  way  for  their  destruction. 


In  the  western  sky  a  young  moon  swam  in  gold. 

Over  the  trees  in  the  Square,  on  a  church  tower, 

Stiffly  stood  a  lighted  cross. 

Neither  God  nor  man  helped  the  girls. 

Out  of  the  heavens  came  only  the  wind, 

Fanning  the  flames,  blowing  the  sparks  far  and  wide, 

Till  in  the  Square  the  children  clapped  their  hands, 

Danced  up  and  down  and  shouted  for  glee. 

Terrifying  sounds  filled  the  air; 

Crackling  and  snapping  of  flames; 

Crashing  glass; 

The  wails  of  the  crowd  as  it  saw  the  girls  jump; 

The  clangor  of  the  bells  on  the  fire-trucks; 

The  hoarse  calls  of  firemen. 

Out  of  the  smoke  and  the  flame, 
Downward  dashed  the  girls  through  roofs  of  glass. 
Mangled  and  dying  they  set  fire  to  other  shops. 
Their  death  but  multiplied  death. 


IV 

SUNG  UNDER  THE  WASHINGTON  ARCH 
In  honor  of  a  hero's  fame 
Who  dared  a  tyrant's  armies'  face. 
You  build  memorials  to  his  name, 
And  then  usurp  the  tyrant's  place. 

The  richest  man  in  all  the  land, 
He  risked  his  wealth  and  risked  his  head; 
But  with  the  people  took  his  stand, 
And  without  pay  the  people  led. 

What  monuments  to  rebel  deeds — 
To  generous  hearts  and  acts  that  match — 
Can  heal  the  wounds  today  that  bleed, 
Or  from  our  masters  power  snatch? 

Dead  as  the  Sphinx  in  Egypt's  sand, 
Dead  as  the  stones  in  ancient  Rome, 
Your  statues,  arches,  columns  stand. 
They  cannot  build  the  poor  a  home. 

They  cannot  give  the  idle  work. 
They  cannot  pay  the  sick  man's  rent. 
They  cannot  choke  bought  justice'  smirk, 
Nor  make  vain,  insolent  wealth  relent. 


[6] 


Great  names  abound,  great  lives  are  few. 
Great  memories  but  little  men. 
You  laud  the  old  but  crush  the  new. 
What  mean  these  helpless  carvings  then. 

V 

The  end  is  death  whatever  the  road  may  be. 
But  death  is  not  the  same  that  comes  to  all. 
One  seeks  the  goal,  disclosing  to  men  great  love; 
Another  flees,  reached  for  by  bloody  hands. 
Slowly,  a  long  way  off,  one  sees  the  end. 
Another  drops  as  in  a  hidden  pit, 
Silenced  from  heaven  by  an  unheard  bolt; 
Or  toiling  for  a  little  bread  is  burned  to  death. 

O  faithful  feet  that  follow  to  the  grave! 

Bare  heads  uncovered  to  the  April  rain! 

You  face,  each  day,  as  dread  a  death  as  these. 

Yes,  laugh  at  heaven's  belated,  hindering  rain. 

Why  splash  on  these,  ye  dumb  and  foolish  skies. 

You  only  soak  the  clothes  they  have  to  wear. 

They're  not  afire,  the  fire  is  out — 

— Yes,  yes,  the  fire  is  out — 

Save  in  their  hearts  and  that  rain  cannot  quench. 


7l 


VI 

SUNG  IN  FRONT  OF  A  CHURCH 

Where  is  the  God  you  boast  you  know? 
What  is  He  doing — your  God  of  love  ? 
Scorns  He,  like  you,  to  glance  below? 
Spends  He  the  time  in  sport  above? 

Home  of  the  fear  of  sin  is  this! 

Ha,  ha,  who  taught  you  what  sin  may  be? 

Fools!  whose  idea  of  heaven  is 

Sexless  to  loaf  eternally. 

Take  it  from  us  what  a  sin  is  like — 
Burning  our  girls,  our  slavery's  leaven. 
Sin  is  the  bargain  that  you  strike, 
Who  snatch  the  earth  and  slip  us  heaven. 

Our  bodies  are  as  much  to  us 
As  what  you  call  your  souls  to  you. 
Share  with  us  labor's  overplus. 
Do  as  you  would  have  others  do. 

Silent,  and  hard,  till  harm  is  done; 
Compelled  to  speak,  now  shrewdly  soft; 
Breathing  pure  air,  basking  in  sun, 
You  lock  us  in  a  death-trap  loft. 


[8] 


Hear  ye!   With  God  you  are  at  strife. 
Soon,  soon  His  foes  He  will  remove. 
Sell  your  churches  and  give  us  life; 
Kneel  in  the  streets  and  give  us  love. 

VII 

Young  Jewesses,  dead  ere  you  wed, 

I  miss  you  and  the  new  life  that  you  brought 

To  our  new  world — 

Your  foreign  looks  and  ways; 

Your  centuries-old  race, 

Bearer  in  the  flesh 

Of  blows  and  stripes  from  every  land; 

The  marks  of  man's  resentment  at  the  spur  of  mind. 

You  warmed  my  heart  toward  life. 

You  added  meaning  to  my  world. 

This  new  world,  old  ere  its  time — 

Like  a  young  man  dragging  his  feet. 

Your  laughing  labors; 

Your  joy  in  the  sun  and  friendly  talk; 

Your  arms  around  each  other; 

Your  bodies  renunciation  of  expense; 

Your  saving  for  the  home  or  for  your  blood  abroad — 

For  a  brother's  ambition  or  a  father's  food; 

All  this  I  loved. 


[9] 


In  the  morning  from  the  subway  you  hurried, 

Filling  the  sidewalk  with  swift  black  crowds. 

At  noon,  bare-headed,  arm  in  arm, 

You  chose  your  push-cart  lunch. 

At  night  you  laughed  and  struggled 

To  enter  a  Williamsburg  car, 

Or  looked  for  your  lovers 

On  the  watch  in  door-ways. 

Shyly  they  greeted  you, 

And  walked  by  your  side. 

Why  should  I  mourn  your  fate? 
For  those  boys  there  are  now  other  girls. 
For  you  a  more  thrilling  embrace 
Than  any  of  maid's  or  of  man's. 
What  love  is  as  fierce  as  a  flame? 
What  man  is  as  constant  as  death? 


[10] 


VIII 

VOICES  IN  THE  AIR 

O  foolish  world  to  burn  us! 

We  could  have  worked  for  you  longer. 

Been  your  slaves  longer. 

Our  strength,  our  youth  would  have  fled 

Soon  enough,  too,  if  you  envied  that. 

Ten  years  or  so, 

From  fourteen  to  twenty-four  does  for  us. 

We  fade.    We  go  to  husbands  and  motherhood, 

With  the  life  already  bled  out  of  us, 

To  breed  a  weakened  race. 


[n] 


O  mad  world, 

Why  don't  you  do  your  work 

Mechanically? 

Why  don't  machines  decrease  evil, 

Instead  of  decreasing  jobs, 

And  intensifying  toil? 

You  make  machines  of  us; 

You  exalt  machines  and  degrade  humans. 

Why  don't  you  give  human  beings, 

Born  miraculously  into  the  light  of  day, 

More  of  the  joy  of  their  birth? 

Joy  of  the  sun,  seen  in  heaven; 

Joy  of  the  earth,  sweet  in  odor; 

Joy  of  the  terrible  waters  of  lake,  river  and  ocean; 

Joy  of  knowledge; 

Joy  of  strength  and  mastery; 

Joy  of  laughter  and  song; 

Joy  of  loving  kindness 

And  of  reciprocal  affection. 


IX 

VOICES  IN  THE  PROCESSION 

Driven  from  Zion  by  foes  of  Jehovah 

We  have  wandered  forty  generations 

In  wildernesses  of  oppression  and  poverty. 

Without  the  hatred  of  war,  nations  have  ridden  over  us, 

Drawn  our  teeth,  bowed  our  shoulders, 

Killed  our  men, 

Raped  our  women, 

Dashed  our  children  against  the  stones, 

Stole  our  goods. 

Now  again  we  mourn. 

May  their  women's  jewels  burn  holes  in  their  flesh, 

Eat  their  fingers,  devour  their  breasts  and  shoulders, 

Scald  their  scalps ! 

May  their  children  be  deformed  in  body 

As  they  are  deformed  in  soul! 

May  they  turn  upon  each  other,  publicly  and  without 

pity! 

May  the  new  weapon  of  slaves'  wrath 
Strike  them  and  leave  only  scattered  human  scraps ! 
May  the  knife,  the  bullet,  the  bomb  torment  their 

dreams, 
And  some  day  find  their  flesh  and  destroy  it! 


[13] 


OTHER  VOICES  IN  THE  PROCESSION 
Remember  Jehovah  and  forgive, 
Lest  He  turn  our  curses  upon  our  heads, 
Delivering  over  our  enemies  to  greater  joys. 
Has  the  Lord's  rule  come  to  an  end? 
His  hand  is  like  an  earthquake, 
His  word  like  thunders. 

Lean  unto  the  Lord  ye  who  dishonor  His  name. 
Zion  anew  will  arise, 
Under  other  skies, 
Those  our  fathers  knew 'in  the  East. 
Endure  till  the  days  of  new  worlds! 

X 

PEOPLE  ON  THE  SIDEWALK  SING  A  HYMN  TO  JUSTICE 

First  Voice 
Up  from  the  clod 
We  ascend  to  God; 
From  the  beast,  from  the  cave, 
From  the  lash,  from  the  slave. 

Save,  O  save 
The  light  that  is  soul, 
The  laughter  of  love. 

Show  us  the  whole, 

Ye  powers  above. 


Second  Voice 

Law  is  now  the  will  of  the  strong. 
Justice,  too  often,  the  hate  of  small  hearts. 
Power  defends  the  ancient  wrong. 
Fortune  no  duty  imparts. 
Answer  our  efforts  by  power  to  do. 
Give  us  desire  for  that  which  is  true. 
Cease  hatreds,  injury,  treachery's  wiles, 
Tyrannies,  terrors,  the  lie  that  beguiles. 
All  the  past  riches  that  man  has  secured, 
All  the  past  sufferings  that  man  has  endured, 
All  endless  time  for  our  building  has  wrought, 
Of  bone,  muscle,  brain,  of  feeling,  of  thought, 
Dome  now  by  brotherhood  and  justice  unbought. 

Third  Voice 

Break  justice's  sword,  there  are  deaths  enough. 
Break  justice's  scales,  she's  not  a  grocer. 
Let  her  hands  help;  not  hold  such  stuff. 
Let  her  eyes  see  the  gold  they  dose  her. 


Fourth  Voice 

Give  me  justice  before  I  die. 
My  life  is  an  unheeded  cry. 
Let  me  be  what  I  can  before  I  die. 
Is  power  only  the  right  to  deny 
The  aspirations  of  the  weak, 
And  crush  the  meek? 
Let  me  sing  the  song  that  is  in  me, 
Do  the  deed,  show  the  love  that  may  win  thee. 
O  justice,  O  fullness  of  life  divine, 
Make  Life's  unborn  power  mine. 

Fifth  Voice 
No  prophet  or  saint 
Has  guessed  the  gift 
The  world  contains, 
Clean  of  all  taint, 
Of  blemish,  of  rift, 
Without  conscious  pains, 
If  men  will  work  with  united  hands — 
One  people  formed  from  many  lands. 


[16] 


All  Voices 

Soon,  shall  we  wake  from  brutish  sleep, 
From  sunken  self  to  joy  in  life  perceived  as  radiant 

strength. 
Coming  like  strong  horses  on  whose  heads  shines  the 

sun. 
Courageous  as  little  birds  who  fly  far  over  the  waves 

of  the  ocean. 
Soon,  soon  we  shall  help  each  other  conquer  the  power 

to  rule — 
Not   man — but  nature   for  man's   soul-feasting  and 

social  joy. 

Soon,  soon  we  shall  glory  in  self-rule  and  self-help, 
Aided  by  all  good  companions  in  ordered  armies  of 

effort, 

The  joy  of  larger  consciousness  in  all. 
The  joy  of  power  heaped  high  from  garnered  waste, 
From  man's  drugged  dreams  and  childish  sports. 
The  joy  of  genius's  new  birth. 
Its  creature  now  not  only  art  but  life; 
New  means  of  lifting  man  above  the  brute; 
Machines  and  armies  sensitive  as  souls. 


Welcome  Home* 
I 

Up  the  vast  harbor,  goal  of  millions  of  dreamers, 
— Hail,  Liberty,  facing  the  dawn  with  thy  flame! — 
Past  Ellis  Island  where  workmen  await  deportation, 
Sail  the  khaki-clad,  valiant  youths  of  the  nation 
— God  help  below,  the  basketed,  mad,  blind,  lame! 
Speed  with   hilarious  decks   the   crafty  hulls  of  huge 

steamers; 

Freighted  with  forms  of  the  future  they  come. 
Welcome  home!    Welcome  home!    Welcome  home! 

Sirens'  crescendos  crack  the  skies 

Our  joys  to  advertise. 

Every  engineer 

Gives  a  steam-whistle  cheer. 

The  plying  ferry-boats 

Hoot  from  happy  throats. 

The  liners  in  their  docks 

Join  the  deafening  shocks — 

With  hollow,  vibrant  basso  drum 

"They  come!    They  come!    They  come!" 

What  speech,  except  just  noise, 

Can  welcome  back  our  boys? 


*  Phi  Beta  Kappa  poem  read  at  Sanders '  Theatre,  Harvard  College, 
June  16,  1919. 

[18] 


The  mighty  city  awakes 

And  laughs,  as  its  pillow  it  shakes — 

"The  boys  are  back,  thousands  are  landing, 

Home-folks,  crowded  on  wharves,  are  standing; 

Travel-stained,  hungry,  humbly  demanding, 

At  most,  incredible  embraces, 

At  least,  a  glimpse  of  dear  faces." 

O,  how  far  it  sounds! 

Leaping  the  land  like  hounds, 

Over  prairie  and  mountains  it  bounds: 

Thrilling  with  tear-swept  joys 

Mothers  unweaned  from  their  boys; 

Calling  to  ranches  and  farms — 

"The  child  who  faced  war's  alarms 

Now  hastens  to  your  arms"; 

While  echoes  up  torrent-torn  canons 

Gladden  home-kept,  luckless  companions. 


[19] 


It  calls  in  tenement  houses, 

Until  the  worker  arouses 

From  dreams  that  the  mill-whistle  lashes, 

Snaps  and  snarls,  like  a  whip,  till  she  dashes 

Half  washed,  half  fed,  with  scant  clothes 

To  the  brutal  machine  she  loathes. 

Ah:  this  is  no  whistle,  no  dream  at  all. 

This  is  a  lover's  call — 

A  husband,  brother,  sweetheart,  son, 

Whose  distant  duty  is  done. 

Out  of  expected  death, 
Out  of  self's  free  surrender, 
Out  of  war's  poisonous  breath, 
Destruction's  last  defender, 
Return  they  again  to  life, 
Waked,  awed  with  wonder, 
To  mother,  or  maid  or  wife, 
Graver  but  finer  and  fonder. 

II 

Where  have  I  heard  before  this  blend  of  passionate  voices, 

This  high,  monotonous  scream, 

Like  being's  eternal  stream 

Fleeing  death 

With  deep  breath 

And  all  song  by  which  triumph  rejoices? 

When  winter's  ice  and  snow 

Melt  as  spring  winds  blow, 

[20] 


Down  hillsides  tumble,  in  brooks  overflow, 

Resounds  the  sleepless  monotone 

Of  Freedom,  unshackled,  come  to  her  own. 

In  meadows  and  marshes  and  ditches, 

Where  frogs  peep  in  high  and  low  pitches, 

Laugh  derisive  frost's  failure  to  hold  them, 

Shriek  taunts  as  soft  slimes  enfold  them, 

Day  and  night, 

Dark  and  light, 

There  have  I  heard  this  call, 

Victory's  mad  antiphonal. 

Where  yellow  grasses  turn  to  green 

With  sweet  violets  between; 

Where  the  bright  swamp  marigold 

Guardian  moats  of  water  hold — 

Skunk-cabbage's  lush  leaves  and  pungent  smell 

Protect  its  seed  in  a  bronze-flecked  shell: 

Where  in  drier  places 

The  sun,  a  new  shade  traces, 

Gaily  hangs  flame-tipped  columbine, 

Up  which  bees  clamber 

For  honied  amber, 

And  white,  starred  anemones  shine, 

There  I  have  heard  before  this  symphony 

Of  life's  victory — 

The  shouts  of  those  who  survive, 

The  laughter  of  those  left  alive. 


21] 


Ill 

Again  exulting  victory  cries 

— Not  from  the  battlefields  of  earth, 

Whose  voices  have  extinguished  mirth — 

But  chorals  that  unlock  the  skies, 

Whither  our  dead  arise, 

As  heroes,  saints,  martyrs  and  beauties  come, 

All  heaven  sings:  "Welcome  home!" 

The  beautiful,  the  young,  the  brave 

Disease  and  war  have  hurried  to  the  grave. 

Innumerable  armies  of  the  dead 

Bend  the  heaven  beneath  their  tread. 

Never  did  life  so  much  with  death  converse, 

Or  stalwart  bodies  shudder  at  a  hearse. 

Never  so  many  brains  with  fruitless  questions  burned, 

Never  so  many  eyes  with  tears  to  heaven  turned. 

What  must  the  labors  of  the  living  be, 

Near  such  beloved,  immortal  company! 


[22] 


Today  ambition  cannot  be  the  same 
As  in  the  days  before  death's  harvest  came. 
The  great  will  not  be  pigmies  feeding  self, 
With  eyes  for  nothing  but  for  fame  and  pelf. 
Greatness  is  not  at  ruinous  costs  to  win 
And  make  the  best  of  what  should  not  have  been. 
Greatness  foresees,  foretells  the  dread  event, 
Creating  forces  that  relieve,  prevent. 
Remember — from  the  beast  mankind  is  sprung, 
And  still  beast  ways  are  by  some  poets  sung. 
The  law  of  eye  for  eye  and  tooth  for  tooth 
Will  not  turn  beasts  to  brother,  lies  to  truth. 
To  this  rule,  then,  adhere  until  the  end, 
Contribute  to  mankind  more  than  you  spend. 
Expense  feeds  on  another's  time  or  blood, 
Who  gives  back  most  of  these  is  wise,  is  good. 
The  workers  are  no  longer  slaves,  or  "hacks," 
And  what  they  say  they  mean,  "Get  off  our  backs!" 
So  for  the  living,  there  is  but  one  creed — 
Each  for  the  world,  and  all  for  each  one's  need. 


[23] 


IV 

We  cannot  watch  all  roads  that  death  may  come; 

We  guard  the  door,  yet  death  steals  in  our  home. 

For  thrust  or  parry  with  death  as  we  will, 

His  blow  is  always  last;  his  "touch"  will  kill. 

No  one  knows  death  except  those  death  has  taken: 

Grief  fears  to  feel  lest  she  to  madness  waken. 

Grief  dare  not  babble  of  the  pangs  she  feels, 

The  world  runs  on;  Grief  stumbles  at  its  heels; 

Builds  in  her  breast  a  prison  for  her  woes 

And  through  the  years  a  silent  jailer  goes. 

We  cannot  watch  all  roads,  but  one  we  can — 

The  birthplace  and  the  fortress,  too,  of  man. 

The  home  at  least  should  save  the  lives  it  rears, 

While  science  strives  to  add  to  mortal  years. 

Youth  is  a  pessimist:  at  life  it  rails, 

Plays  with  self-slaughter  and  its  sire  assails. 

To  death  youth  plunges  in  war's  sudden  strife, 

Before  it  learns  the  value  of  its  life. 

The  fault  is  with  the  fathers.   Life  they  know, 

But  would  stay  longer  at  its  pleasant  show, 

Heap  up  more  wealth  though  famine  feed  their  store, 

Deaf  to  God's  threat — "Your  sons  must  pay  the  score." 

Pride  of  courage,  greed  of  greater  gain, 

Hides  the  high  price  and  the  eternal  pain. 


24] 


A  tithing  of  the  brains  it  cost  to  win 
Would  have  insured  our  times  against  this  sin, 
Had  brains  sought  to  supply  the  needy 's  dearth, 
Nor  reddened  battlefields  to  rule  the  earth. 

V 

I  used  to  read  names  in  Memorial  Hall 

Of  students  who  for  freedom  gave  their  all, 

At  Gettysburg  or  in  the  Wilderness, 

A  boy,  I  gazed  and  dreamed,  but  must  confess 

They  seemed  like  heroes  of  Achilles'  time — 

Unlike  us,  distant,  of  a  race  sublime. 

But  now  new  names  for  that  famed  wall  appear 

How  young,  how  full  of  human  hopes,  how  dear! 

Saviors  of  savior  nations — theirs  the  high  course 

Of  victors  over  tyranny  and  force. 

Yet  one  who  from  my  far-off  time  returns 

Must  have  permission  to  erect  two  urns, 

Where  Bacon's  name  and  Roosevelt's  name  should  be, 

Apollo,  Mars,  in  my  mythology. 


VI 

We  grow  in  soul  and  consciousness 
Not  merely  when  we  eat,  sleep,  dress 

And  pass  the  time, 
But  when  foes  of  mankind  we  meet, 
Pray,  struggle,  starve,  nor  know  retreat. 

— For  cowardice  is  crime. 
Where  battlefields  their  terrors  hurled, 
And  where  brave  thought  rebuilds  the  world, 

There  soul  is  born  and  grows. 
So  age  like  youth 
Still  worships  truth, 
And  deathless  spirit  shows. 
Proud  youths  who  thought  your  duty  done 

When  you  came  home, 
More  glorious  duties  have  outrun. 

A  vaster  heaven  you  find  to  dome 
The  larger  world  we  all  demand. 
Yes,  bigger  than  our  native  land, 
Where  all  may  have  a  chance  to  be 

Children  of  one  divinity. 
The  home  you  left  is  not  the  same, 
"What's  wrong?"  you  ask,  "Who  is  to  blame? 
I  left  my  home  a  thoughtless  boy, 
Now  a  man's  powers  I  would  employ. 


Some  newer  need  prompts  me  to  ask 
No  useless  job,  but  a  real  task. 
Yes,  France  and  Belgium  to  restore, 
But  to  all  men  give  more. 
Bestow  not  only  home  and  food, 
But  in  all  hearts  true  brotherhood. 
What's  home,  except  the  happiness 
Of  knowing  that  your  deeds  will  bless? 
A  trench — a  prison — where'er  you  roam 
In  God's  behalf  is  home." 

VII 

Honor  the  victor!   Let  arches  endure, 

Noble  as  those  in  Rome, 
Though  the  forms  of  the  dead;  the  eyes  of  the  poor 

Have  veiled  his  joy  of  home. 

Build  him  a  home  that  can  never  decay, 

In  peace  or  war,  in  youth  or  age; 
One  that  will  last  him  a  year  and  a  day, 

A  deathless  war  to  wage. 

What  is  the  task  can  absorb  his  full  powers? 

Mankind — their  tears,  their  prayers — 
Quench  them,  answer  them.   Lift  him  who  cowers; 

Cheer  him  on  who  dares. 


27 


What  have  we  learned  in  this  world  of  blood  ? 

For  soon  we  may  profit  by  it. 
Famine  that  slays  is  not  lack  of  food, 

But  of  money  to  buy  it. 

The  gods — do  they,  grieved  and  weary,  nod? 

Has  a  race  of  old  men  arisen  ? 
Are  our  bravest  buried  beneath  the  sod? 

Are  our  deepest  hearts  in  prison  ? 

O  victory  bringing  triumphs,  breeding  fears, 

O  victor  whose  lips  are  dumb! 
Do  you  see  no  peace  in  future  years, 

But  terrible  days  to  come? 

No!  if  conquest  be  not  domination, 
But  adoption  of  those  we  defeat 

If  our  toil  be  a  new  creation, 
A  brotherhood  complete. 


Ad  Matrem 

ElA,  MATER,  FONS  AMORIS. 

I 

O  Christ,  you  left  not  even  Cynthia. 

The  stars  are  empty  now, 
Their  gods  and  goddesses  are  gone. 
In  leafy  glade,  on  shadowy  hillside  are 
No  longer  nymphs  at  play, 

Thy  sorrow-saddened  brow, 
The  tree  you  died  upon, 
Frightened  those  happy  ones  away. 

Bacchus'  exulting  crew, 

Scorned,  fell  back  from  you; 
White  Aphrodite  withered  back  to  foam. 

What  hast  thou  brought  instead? 
All  men  could  pour  the  lustral,  pleading  wine 
And  bear  a  gift  to  Hercules'  thronged  shrine; 

Or  love,  forget  and  rove 

In  Cybele's  dim  grove. 
All  maids  could  follow  where  Adonis  led, 
In  verdant  meadows  plumed  with  iris  roam, 

And  laugh  and  dance  and  sing 

Prinked  out  with  buds  of  Spring. 


Calm  priests  could  slay  a  lowing  hecatomb; 

Youths  look  with  wistful  eyes, 

That  longed  and  might  espy 
A  sweet  form  glide  into  her  fountain  home; 

Or  hear  the  quick-drawn  breathing  of  a  race 

And  turn  to  meet  the  glory  of  Apollo's  face. 

II 

What  has  thou  brought?   Where  is  the  waving  throng, 
Bright  eyed,  with  loud  hosannas  and  shrill  song 
That  strewed  torn  palms  before  thy  regal  way? 

No  cymbal's  clash  or  shouting  train, 

But  tears  and  moans,  reproach,  disdain, 
Until  the  end  on  Calvary  did  stay. 
Art  thou  our  God  and  archetypal  man? 
As  ages  pass  must  we  forever  scan 

Thy  cross,  with  drooping  head  and  arm  stretched 
wide; 

The  thorns,  thy  nakedness  and  bleeding  side; 

The  skull-shaped  hill  on  which  you  died? 
A  sight  that  blasted  Spring's  blue  heaven  blind, 
Till  midnight  stars,  amazed,  at  noon-day  shined; 
While  earthquakes  disemboweled  pregnant  graves, 
And  holy  things  stood  stark  to  sneering  knaves — 
Is  that  the  best  our  eyes  will  ever  see? 
Must  heaven  be  entered  through  thine  agony? 


What  bringest  thou  who  treadest  on  past  joy? 
As  Autumn's  feet  o'er  hill  and  dale 

Trample  the  fallen  fruits,  the  fallen  leaves, 
Dost  lead  a  load  of  yellow  sheaves? 
Or  drivest  thou  the  storm  and  gale 
Of  Winter  desolate  and  pale? 
What  givest  thou  for  joys  thy  griefs  destroy? 

Ill 

The  veil  is  rent,  the  shrines  in  silence  rest; 
The  sphinx,  her  unguessed  secret  in  her  breast, 
Around  whose  feet  the  bones  of  wisdom  spread, 
No  longer  gives  her  riddle,  all  is  said. 
Nature  no  more  her  gilded  net  can  cast, 
For  thou,  O  Christ,  hast  come  at  last. 
Lo,  with  thee,  love  has  come  unknown  before: 
Not  Aphrodite  with  her  Lesbian  lore 
And  reckless  boy,  blind,  hapless,  insolent; 
But  love  that  gains  through  suffering  content, 
Whose  face  the  gates  of  death  revealed, 
Where  Mary,  mother,  weeping,  kneeled, 
And  sorrow,  holding  goads  for  memory, 
And  grief,  marred  portress  to  love's  sacristy. 
There  death  was  changed  like  Aaron's  rod 
And  man  beheld  blossom  the  love  of  God. 


IV 

All  worships  change,  save  that  a  son  can  give; 
Though  altars  perish,  motherhood  will  live. 
A  singer  thou,  my  mother,  whose  soul's  song 
Enchants  the  hearts  that  hear. 
No  verse  can  fitly  phrase 

The  rhythm  of  thy  days; 
Sweet  rhyme  has  not  thy  cheer, 
Euterpe,  dear  to  thee,  is  not  so  strong. 

Daughter  of  Puritans,  like  them  as  stern 
To  champion  right,  to  fight  the  wrong. 

From  thy  high  path  thou  wilt  not  turn, 
But  look  askance  at  tripping  pleasure, 
As  though  her  merry  dance 
Could  turn  thy  heavenly  glance 

From  misery's  full  measure, 
And  thou  forget  thy  errand  of  deliverance; 
Thou  fleest  her  caress, 
Pleasure  to  thee  is  selfishness. 
Yet  nestling  in  thy  strength  lies  ever, 
Like  a  reflection  in  a  river, 
Sweet  as  arbutus  underneath  the  snow, 
Thy  second  self,  a  queen  in  fairy  show. 
Thou  livest  in  rich  thought, 
That  comes  to  thee  unsought, 

The  unspoiled  splendor  of  a  summer  day. 


The  common  world  for  thee 
Is  hung  in  jubilee; 

Each  with  his  best  adorns  thy  royal  way. 

V 

O  how  can  love  its  vision  realize! 

For  near  thee  I  would  ever  dwell, 
But  separation,  sin  and  self  arise 
To  hide  thee  from  mine  eyes. 

I  say  "Farewell," — 
My  heart  foreboding  falters 

To  take  my  leave  of  thee  and  happiness, 
Till  love,  my  life,  its  service  strangely  alters 
And  slays  me  by  its  own  excess. 
But  no!     I  see  a  larger  plan. 

My  love  need  not  lament  in  barren  days, 
When  hands  touch  not,  nor  fond  eyes  scan 
The  form  it  broods  always 
But  cannot  greet. 
Where  love  exists  all  love  is  in  relation. 

So  in  Christ's  love  and  loving  ministry 
Thou  art  exalted  in  my  exaltation; 
Soul  touching  soul  I  walk  with  thee 
Alone  along  the  crude  mill-village  street. 
Thou  art  not  absent,  nor  I  desolate, 
When  I  in  heavenly  love  participate. 


33 


VI 
Thou  reconcilest  me  to  things  divine 

And  lead  by  love  where  feet  are  loath  to  tread; 
Alluring  as  a  rainbow  draws  a  child, 
Who,  breathless,  runs  to  grasp  it,  but  beguiled 
By  its  attainless  beauty,  still  is  led 
On,  on,  in  ardent  quest  where  heaven  and  earth  entwine. 
Yes,  farther  still.     As  far 
As  flames  the  last,  swift  star 

Upon  the  brink  of  being  thou  shalt  lead. 
If  those  orbs  cease  to  roll 
And  all  is  void  but  soul, 

In  that  new  world,  my  life  thy  light  will  need. 
Bright  eyes  and  merry  ways  attract  a  boy, 
And  youth  in  these  too  often  seeks  its  joy; 
But  manhood  looking  nearer 

The  awful  spirit  sees, 
Then,  with  a  vision  clearer 
Mere  flesh  ceases  to  please, 
And  in  the  face 
It  seeks  heaven's  grace. 
Sweet  face,  sweet  mother,  I  can  see 
To-day  the  world's  maturity; 
The  gods  forlorn, 
The  Lord  Christ  born, 
That  man  might  rise  by  thy  love's  regency. 


34 


The  Cambridge  School* 
I 

THE  PLACE. 

Elm-shaded  town  where  poets  thrive, 
And  life  is  thought  or  laureled  song; 
Strife  hushed  except  when  ideals  strive, 
Far  from  rough  contact  with  the  throng! 

Broad  meadows,  tall  groves  famed  for  birds, 
Still  streets  where  brooding  scholars  walk, 
Plain  buildings,  shrines  of  deathless  words, 
Small  homes,  fond  scene  of  fruitful  talk! 

I've  stopped  and  looked  across  yon  wall, 
On  graves  whose  names  will  always  thrill, 
Of  Minute-men,  at  Freedom's  call 
Who  died  for  us,  ere  Bunker  Hill. 

Ah!  here,  indeed,  is  holy  ground! 

Stern  school  of  new  apostolate! 

Where  Freedom  lives,  there  Truth  is  found; 

Near  heroes'  graves,  men  should  be  great. 


*Read  at  the  Fortieth  Anniversary  of  the  Episcopal  Theological  School  j 
Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  June,  1907. 


35 


Here  nature,  mind  and  art  unite 
To  mix  the  air  you  come  to  breathe, 
Who  love  mankind,  grieve  at  its  plight, 
And  seek  those  cures  the  saints  bequeath. 

Where  once  the  rough-hewn  stockade  stood, 
That  walled  our  sires  from  savage  foes, 
Then,  crumbling,  ran  to  willow- wood, 
Here,  for  God's  use,  these  halls  arose. 

II 

THE  PRIEST. 

In  days  when  mind  and  men  are  free, 
When  superstition  has  decreased, 
And  business  bustles  charity, 
What  need  of  church?   What  place  for  priest? 

His  aim  is  not  what  Mather  sought, 
Whose  pulpit  ruled  o'er  Justice's  head; 
Who  harried  minds  diseased,  distraught, 
And  goaded  souls  Christ  would  have  led. 

Nor  his  who  through  May-lilacs  gazed, — 
With  Jove-like  head,  sweet,  sound,  serene, — 
And  dreamed  the  Indians'  dreams  and  raised 
Weird  woods  that  sighed  "Evangeline." 


[36 


His  place  is  not  with  him  who  guessed 
From  Alpine  drifts  a  glacial  age; 
Who  coaxed  us  back  to  nature's  breast, 
Great  teacher,  genial  leader,  sage. 

He  is  impatient  of  all  tasks 
That  hold  him  from  his  fellow's  side; 
Would  give  his  life,  and  only  asks 
It  bless  mankind  as  when  Christ  died. 

He  sees  the  laborer  walk  from  work, 
'Neath  bundled,  refuse  wood  still  bent. 
His  heart  goes  with  him  to  the  murk 
Called  home  in  some  foul  tenement. 

The  coat,  patched  on  the  shoulder,  tells 
Loads  he  has  borne  and  still  will  bear. 
He  loves  his  haste,  laugh,  dirt,  pipe-smells 
And  form  refined  by  slender  fare. 

Where  pain  is  found,  there  he  is  found, — 
His  pleasure  to  bring  pain  release: 
Where  sin,  shame  or  despair  abound, 
He  hungers  to  speak  pardon,  peace. 


[37] 


His  visions  mingle  with  men's  deeds; 
Mould  sculptors'  clay,  halt  feet  that  err, 
Give  souls  to  bodies,  worth  to  weeds: — 
Heaven's  priest,  but  earth's  interpreter. 

Ill 

TRUTH. 

Little  you  taught  to  be  unlearned, 
By  wider  study,  deeper  thought. 
Your  flame  our  mental  stubble  burned, 
And  left  what  mind  and  conscience  wrought. 

For  truth  is  what  unfetters  mind; 
Emboldens  bosoms,  builds  the  soul. 
What  makes  man  to  his  fellows  kind, 
And  in  composure  sees  life  whole. 

No  Jacob's  ladder, —  that  a  dream — 
Connects  bare  heavens  with  flowering  earth. 
On  every  street  divine  steps  gleam; 
For  God  is  born  in  every  birth. 

Whose  eyes  have  seen  life  burst  the  grave, 
And  soul  unfold  when  flesh  decays; 
Beheld  the  smile  that  spirits  have, 
Who  turn  to  us  from  heavenly  ways. 


[38 


Who  looks  at  men  with  their  deep  eyes, 
In  every  one  a  God  can  see. 
His  soul  has  entered  Paradise; 
He  lives  in  immortality. 

IV 

THE  TIMES. 

Christ's  name  resounds  in  Gothic  aisles, 
In  creed,  in  hymn,  in  sacrament. 
His  cross  is  worn  in  many  styles. 
Are  Christ's  gifts  to  His  followers  spent? 

Tenacious  of  the  form  and  name, 
Obtuse  to  truth  concealed  within, 
Monopoly  of  Christ  we  claim, 
Yet  still  are  sick,  and  still  will  sin. 

Still  women  sell  their  souls  for  food, 
And  children  waste  their  bloom  in  toil, 
Still  power  drains  its  plenitude, 
And  plows  the  poor, — still  fertile  soil. 

When  men  indifferent  turn  away, 
And  lightly  live  as  fay  or  elf, 
Heedless  of  God  or  man  and  say 
"He  helps  the  world  who  helps  himself." 


39 


We  whine:  "The  cold  world  has  no  heart, 
We  work  unpraised,  we  work  alone." 
Discouraged  give  up  man  for  art, 
Then  slave  to  please  those  hearts  of  stone. 

We  burden  memory,  shackle  mind, 
Hold  genius  back  and  scare  the  brave, 
Make  truth  half-falsehood,  progress  bind, 
At  ghostly  voices  from  the  grave. 

When  knowledge  broadening  looks  askance 
At  older  stores — religion's  prize — 
We  know  its  wealth  will  but  enhance 
Our  spirit's  worth,  creation's  size. 

But  when  the  church  fears  God  revealed, 
In  other  forms  than  in  one  man: 
And  sees  no  heaven  where  races  kneeled 
Who  reverenced  God's  less  baffled  plan. 

We  turn  impatient  from  the  dark, 
Of  quaking  hearts  and  little  minds; 
We  turn  and  worship  that  bright  spark 
That  love  in  every  creature  finds. 


40 


We  leave  the  past;  its  guess,  its  heap 
Of  waste  picked  o'er,  its  falsehood  taught. 
Its  heroes,  beauty?    Yes,  we  keep 
Enshrined  in  life,  in  soul  inwrought. 

We  sadly  leave  the  past,  like  Ruth, — 
Whose  home  was  love,  for  well  we  know 
Religion  can  be  naught  but  truth, 
And  fear  and  falsehood  naught  but  woe. 

Splendid  the  hope  confronts  the  hour! 
Both  mind  and  heart  must  creeds  approve. 
O  Christ  thy  church  will  lack  no  power, 
When  love  serves  truth,  and  truth  serves  love. 


[41] 


The  Radical 

I  stand  for  the  man 

Who  cannot  get  justice  in  any  court 

For  the  poor  man 

Who  only  gets  a  moral  lecture  from  the  judge, — 

Platitudes  about  the  Declaration  of  Independence; 

About  one  man  in  America  having  as  good  a  chance  as 

another, 
And  a  sentence  for  thirty  days,  six  months  or  a  year. 

I  stand  for  the  man 

Who  does  not  like  so  much  talk  about  the  flag 

By  women  who  are  fond  of  color; 

By  men  who  rob  the  people 

And  who  foment  war  for  their  profit. 

I  stand  for  the  man 

Who  is  sick  of  this  piffle 

About  God 

From  ministers  and  millionaires, 

Who  seem  to  own  God, 

He  treats  them  so  well. 


I  feel  better  for  the  blows  I  receive 

As  the  friend  of  undesirable  citizens. 

My  revolt  is  a  little  of  the  revolt  in  them. 

My  insults  are  a  part  of  the  blows  they  receive. 

If  I  do  not  explode 

With  as  much  love  and  hate  as  they  do, 

And  get  lodged  in  jail, 

I  can  at  least  suffer  a  little  on  their  account. 


43 


The  Anarchist 

The  District  Attorney  snaps  his  jaws, 

He  tightens  and  curls  his  thin  lips, 

He  scowls  and  focuses  his  ferret  eyes, 

He  separates  the  prisoner  from  friendly  aid — 

He  insults  him,  he  riddles  him  with  ridicule, 

He  overwhelms  him  with  terror-breeding  lies, 

He  plays  with  him  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse, 

He  kills  him  but  does  not  eat  him, — 

Just  leaves  him  dead. 

I  smile,  Mr.  District  Attorney,  to  think 

There  is  a  thing  would  relax  that  strong  mask  of  yours 

Without  the  aid  of  whiskey. 

The  judge  robes  himself  with  his  Gold  Almighty  superi 
ority. 

He  is  the  arbiter  of  moral  turpitude. 

He  is  the  patriot — 

The  expounder  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence 

To  men  who  have  found  their  way  from  Russia  to 
America  by  its  light. 

Who  starve,  it  is  true,  on  hopes  it  holds  out. 

His  platitudes  got  him  a  job. 

He  plays  with  platitudes  five  hours  a  day. 


[44] 


Ha,  ha,  old  man,  I  know  something  that  would  wake 

you  up 

For  a  minute  or  two,  and  make  you  talk  sense, 
Then  let  you  sleep  forever. 

The  railroad  president  thinks  he  has  his  men 

Where  the  hair  is  short. 

They  have  struck 

For  a  little  more  time  with  their  families, 

A  little  better  education  for  their  boy  and  girl, 

For  more  bread  on  the  table. 

So  the  militia  now  guards  the  property. 

Scared  young  fellows 

Who  wonder  with  horror 

If  they  will  have  to  shoot  other  young  fellows 

They  went  to  school  with 

And  played  baseball  with  on  vacant  lots. 

A  bored  policeman  sits  on  the  platform  of  the  few  cars 

running. 

"To  guard  the  people?" 
No,  you  Guy,  to  guard  the  cars. 


45 


Why  did  not  the  stockholders  think  of  police  protection 

When  the  directors  of  the  road  were  transferring 

Millions  of  this  precious  property 

To  their  private  bank  accounts; 

Dumping  stock  on  their  friends  and  the  public  at  high 

prices? 

If  the  policeman  had  clubbed  the  directors 
At  each  meeting  when  they  "obstructed  traffic," 
The  Receivership  might  have  been  avoided. 

No,  Mr.  President, 

You  have  not  such  a  tight  grip  on  the  men  as  you  fancy. 

I  know  something  that  would  loose  your  talons. 

No,  not  more  graft. 


46 


Dawn 

Why  should  I  not  praise  the  dawn  ? 

Did  Vedic  poets  and  Greek  poets 

Alone  know  its  might? 

I,  too,  have  seen  the  dawn  from  India's  mountains; 

Flames  kindled  on  snowy  peaks, 

Lone  summits  contagious  of  fire. 

The  swift  leap  of  the  sun  downward 

From  summit  to  summit. 

Across  black,  untrod  abysses 

I,  too,  have  seen  the  sun  rise  on  Greek  Islands, 
Where  again  walked  immortal  beauty, 
Gods  and  goddesses 
In  the  rosy  fingered  dawn. 

O  God,  let  me,  too,  glorify  life. 

Why  should  I  not  praise  what  daily  can  give  joy? 

Nothing  exacting  such  joy  from  man 

Except  his  wedding  day. 

But  here  for  all,  for  life  is  the  sun, 

After  the  silence  and  shadow  of  night, 

Creeping  quietly  forward, 

With  delicate  tints,  expanding  and  brightening. 


47 


Over  the  ocean  comes  from  the  east 
The  crimson  dawn,  vital  as  blood, 
While  the  trees  stand  inert,  indistinct, 
Waiting  to  be  told  of  new  life. 
Playfully  letting  them  sleep  as  it  speeds 
On  beyond  them,  quickening,  then  resting. 
Rolling  from  the  east  like  the  hopes  of  man, 
Waked  each  day  to  new  aspiration. 

How  the  pine  trees  on  the  eastern  hill 

Stand  out  against  red  and  gold! 

How  bright  and  colored  the  mountain  top, 

While  still  its  base  is  dark  and  cold! 

How  the  water  in  the  bay  is  dyed  in  many  tints! 

I  know  your  secret,  O  gorgeous  east. 
I  know  your  hope,  O  waiting  earth. 
That  man  should  grow  richer  and  stronger  each  day, 
Matching  your  godlike  strides, 
Ruddy  with  health,  full  of  gifts, 
Always  speeding  onward,  never  turning  backward, 
Always  intensely  vivifying — always  shining  with  bright 
ness. 


48 


That  man  should  break  free  from  his  cell; 
His  prison-house,  his  death-house, 

His  fears,  discouragements,  silences,  penances,  prostra 
tions. 

Not  creep,  bent  double,  with  the  weight  of  inflicted  toil; 
But  breathe  the  heaven  of  earth's  daily  birth, 
And  match  the  sun's  unflinching  march  of  light. 


49 


Benares 

I  pray  for  the  sad  souls  that  pray 
By  Ganges,  the  flower-strewn  river, 

Whose  blue,  gleaming  waves  wash  away 
The  gifts  and  the  sins  of  the  giver. 

As  he  dips  himself  thrice  in  the  flood, 
And  drinks  of  it,  laves  in  it,  splashes, 

Till  his  sins  flow  away  like  the  mud 
Which  scours  the  bowl  that  he  washes. 

Through  the  dark  palace  gates  of  Gwalior 
Throng  pilgrims,  their  souls  heavy  laden; 

Down,  down  the  vast  steps  to  the  shore, 

Move  the  elders,  slim  youth,  jeweled  maiden. 

While  naked  bronze,  pedestaled  high, 
Some  prone  or  awhirl  make  their  prayer: 

Or  wrapped  in  bright  robes  softly  sigh 
As  at  the  broad  river  they  stare. 


[50] 


Where  all  things  are  sacred  save  man 
And  woman,  the  meek  burden-bearer; 

Dream-weary  and  starved  is  life's  span 
And  the  tied  shroud  is  burned  with  the  wearer. 

I  pray  that  a  life  may  appear, 

Like  our  own  born  of  man  and  of  woman, 
Revealing  man's  love  for  man  here, 

A  love  most  divine  because  human: 

To  destroy  the  divisions  of  creed, 

To  frame  of  all  people  one  nation, 
To  supply  without  grudging  all  need 

And  give  birth  to  the  God  in  creation. 

I  pray  for  the  sad  souls  that  pray 

To  Ganges  the  thrice-sacred  river, 
Which  springs  from  the  snows  far  away 

And  will  flow  with  forgiveness  forever. 


51 


At  Delhi  Gate 

A  blind  girl  grinding  corn, 
Beside  worn  women  three; 

Her  head  awhirl,  her  bare  arms  torn, 
She  stared  at  vacancy. 

As  fast  the  stones  went  round 

She  cried  out  bitterly, 
"Why  kneel  I  here  upon  the  ground, 

Chained  to  this  task  and  ye? 

"I  toil  but  others  eat, 

In  a  world  I  cannot  see. 
I  will  arise  from  this  squat  seat 

And  end  my  misery." 

Then  one  hag,  brown  and  old, 
As  the  wheel  ground  rapidly, 

Toothless,  her  wrinkled  wisdom  told 
The  girl's  dark  agony. 

"The  blind  with  the  old  must  stay. 

Your  sisters,  child,  are  we. 
Men  mock  us,  turn  their  heads  away 

And  feed  us  grudgingly." 


The  girl  knelt  stiff  with  rage, 

As  hooded  cobra  crests. 
"I,  sister  to  your  palsied  age! 

See,  have  I  shriveled  breasts?" 

The  next  said:  "I  have  learned 
This  world  was  made  for  men. 

A  woman's  soul  by  heaven  is  spurned. 
Why  will  you  chatter  then?" 

The  girl  sank  back.     Her  moan 

Was  like  a  lost  soul's  cry. 
"On  earth  no  lover  have  I  known. 

Is  there  no  love  on  high?" 

The  third  spoke,  swift  her  wheel, 
The  smooth  meal  slipping  fast: 

"Like  you  at  these  hard  stones  I  kneel, 
Like  them  my  youth  is  past. 

"The  fields  throb  warm  with  sun, 

Cool  waters  fill  the  well, 
The  nibbling  kids  by  their  mothers  run 

And  sweet  the  mangoes  smell. 


53] 


"Like  poor  beasts,  trees,  and  fields, 
We  must  give  something,  too. 

Child,  since  all  life  an  increase  yields, 
Let  God  give  bread  by  you." 

The  blind  girl  grasped  her  wheel. 

"Smooth  kids!  sweet  mango-tree! 
Great  Lord,  whom  none  can  see  or  feel, 

I'll  live  and  toil  for  thee." 


54 


The  Awakening  Soul 
I 

As  a  new  spirit  grieving, 
Heaven's  hosts  are  just  receiving, 
Pure  from  cold  Death's  dumb  shrieving, 

Peers  through  the  City  gate; 
In  spite  of  her  fresh  wonder 
At  sight  of  that  life  yonder, 
Her  wish  for  earth  flames  fonder 

For  one  now  desolate. 

II 

She  longs  for  earth  and  turning, 
Looks  down  where  tears  are  burning, 
Where  laughter  and  love's  yearning 

Mix  in  the  stream  of  life. 
Where  shade  the  sun  enlaces, 
Where  flesh  a  soul  encases, 
Where  dust  a  god  embraces, 

And  man  is  joined  to  wife. 


[55] 


Ill 

The  arms  death  loosed  still  bind  her 
With  bridal  sweet  reminder, 
And  the  young  years  behind  her, 

Until  strange  soft  tears  flow. 
Although  a  spirit  gleams  she, 
Again  a  woman  seems  she, 
Until  God's  angel  deems  she 

Can  then  no  farther  go. 

IV 

So  Psyche  feels  the  motion 

Of  forces  deep  as  ocean; 

Strong,  strange,  sweet  as  love's  potion,- 

Earth's  pulses  from  the  past: 
The  smell  of  soil  and  flowers, 
Bare  bathing  in  warm  showers, 
All  fair  things  once  her  dowers 

In  thousand  strange  forms  cast. 


56] 


V 

She  looks  down  in  dejection, 
Bowed  by  the  stern  perfection 
Of  human,  high  election 

To  life  beyond  the  brute. 
She  loves  her  older  being, — 
So  blind  to  heaven, — but  seeing 
All  life  in  sense  agreeing, — 

All  love,  though  love  be  mute. 

VI 

She  is  the  crystal's  clearness, 
Dense  matter  purged  of  blearness, 
Will,  moulding  a  new  nearness, 

To  man's  mind  and  to  God's. 
She  is  the  cavern's  brightness, 
The  frost  and  snow's  starred  whiteness, 
The  cataract's  frozen  lightness; 

But  ever  upward  plods. 


57 


VII 

She  is  the  lotus-flower, 
Slime-born,  but  rich  in  dower 
To  pierce,  with  prescient  power 

Through  every  element. 
Through  mud  she  blindly  passes; 
Waves'  cool,  translucent  glasses, 
Past  dreaming  water  grasses, 

To  sunlight's  gold  content. 

VIII 

Free,  free,  she  cleaves  the  water, 
But  flees  as  if  death  sought  her, 
For  freedom  sadly  taught  her 

To  fear  and  watch  for  foes. 
She  sounds  dark  depths  or  lashes 
Blue  waves  to  foam,  or  dashes 
Out  of  her  world  and  flashes 

In  heaven  that  no  life  knows. 


[58] 


IX 

She  is  a  serpent  coiling, 
Envenomed  and  entoiling 
All  life,  or  all  life  soiling 

At  whose  kiss  all  things  die. 
She  is  the  lark  in  heaven, 
Hymning  the  planets  seven, 
At  dewy  dawn  or  even — 

Earth's  passion  winged  on  high. 

X 

She  feels  the  rough  surrender 
Of  flesh  to  impulse  tender, 
That  mate  and  cub  engender, 

In  jungles  deep  and  dark. 
She  knows  her  own  strength  matches 
The  wild,  lithe  play  she  watches, 
For  each  fierce  thing  she  catches 

She  strikes  and  it  is  stark. 


[59] 


XI 

She  is  mankind's  great  mother 
Men  conscious  serve  each  other, 
Now  call  a  God  their  brother, 

And  change  the  world's  rough  face. 
But  Psyche  on  life  ponders, 
Pries  secrets  from  all  wonders, 
In  prayer  the  beast  life  sunders, 

And  clears  for  mind  more  space. 

XII 

Fear  flesh?     'Tis  no  temptation, 
Sing  soul  in  exultation 
This  heaven  of  creation, 

All  beauty  wrapped  in  one. 
Tint,  touch?      A  rose's  petal, 
Past  marble  or  mined  metal 
To  match,  wherein  is  set  all 

Of  grace  all  love  has  spun. 


[60] 


XIII 

Does  conscience's  birth  distress  you, 
God's  constant  voice  oppress  you, 
Remorse  in  mourning  dress  you, 

Till  you  wish  God  were  not? 
Be  patient  with  your  weakness, 
God  will  not  crush  your  meekness, 
Forsake  you  in  stark  bleakness, 

With  all  your  good  forgot. 

XIV 

As  leaves  laugh  in  September, 
Which  fierce  gales  would  dismember, 
Leaves  dead  before  December, 

Now  clasp  each  tossing  bough; 
And  bend,  sway,  roar  with  laughter, 
At  the  mad  wind  rushing  after, 
Though  it  shake  roof  and  rafter, 

It  cannot  strip  them  now. 


[61 


XV 

Laugh  ye  at  hostile  forces, 
Unpent  from  lower  sources, 
To  war  on  your  high  courses, 

And  watch  for  your  weak  hour. 
Laugh!     Hug  life  as  a  passion, 
In  spite  of  foes  that  dash  on, 
Live  in  heroic  fashion 

Souls  over  death  must  tower. 

XVI 

Your  days  are  short,  so  hasten, 
O  architect  and  mason 
Of  life,  to  help  the  race  on 

By  buildings  vast  and  free; 
A  palace  for  all  people, 
No  roof  but  stars  its  steeple, 
Where  love  and  justice  leap  all 

Lower  tyranny. 


[62] 


XVII 

Say  not  that  God  sees  weeping, 
And  wakes  not  from  His  sleeping 
When  man  in  sin  is  steeping, 

In  sin,  lean  want  and  care; 
So  I  will  be  as  God  is, 
Men  shall  be  as  the  clod  is, 
My  hand  hard  as  the  rod  is, 

No  tears  shall  soften  prayer. 

XVIII 

For  God's  tears  are  your  own  tears, 
And  God's  care  but  your  own  fears, 
Yes,  God's  pain  what  your  soul  bears 

Of  this  world's  weary  load. 
God  mourns  in  your  heart  broken, 
God  loves  in  your  fond  token, 
God  speaks  when  prayers  are  spoken 

That  smooth  the  onward  road. 


[63] 


The  Serving  Soul 

What  is  thy  errand,  O  soul, 

Conqueror  in  warfare  on  earth,  ere  man; 
Fusing  with  freedom  the  whole 

Of  earth,  sea,  air,  fire,  in  thy  small  span; 
Victory  incarnate,  champion,  life's  breath 

Born  on  the  pale  lips  of  death. 

Herald  despatched  from  the  fight, 

Scathless  from  foes  by  water,  by  land; 

Kindling  the  world  with  thy  light, 
Sowing  earth  thick  with  life  from  thy  hand. 

Dome  with  new  heavens  and  stars  a  new  earth, 
Bring  death  and  dark  to  new  birth. 

Finder  of  fire  in  flint; 

Fuser  of  iron;  planter  of  corn; 
Following  nature's  each  hint, 

Whither  invention  and  art  are  born. 
Where  is  the  task  can  surpass  thy  power? 

Mind  and  its  gifts  are  thy  dower. 


64 


Conquer  the  nature  of  man, 

Curious  for  knowledge,  hopeful,  fond,  brave; 
Battling  to  do  all  dust  can, 

Following  fairest  dreams  to  the  grave. 
Out  of  the  mire  and  beast,  Hail!     Arise! 

Be  all  that  man  can  comprise. 

Conquer  the  nature  of  God, 

Patient,  persistent,  fertile,  benign. 

Quickening  a  brain,  or  a  clod; 
Seeing  in  evil  and  sin  design; 

Bringing  to  pass  His  eternal  thought; 
Scorning  ideas  until  wrought. 

Courage  that  conquered  the  brute; 

Power  prevailing  o'er  human  foes; 
Swiftness  beyond  death's  pursuit; 

Famine's  lean  pack,  fevers'  throes. 
Danger  nor  hardship  can  daunt  thee  now, 

Failure  nor  fear  cloud  thy  brow. 

Pioneer,  unarmed  and  meek. 

Bearer  of  seed,  not  seeker  for  gold; 
Leaving  behind  what  men  seek, 

Seeking  what  men  by  their  sins  have  sold. 
Ignorance,  misery,  share  thy  lot: 

Honor,  wealth,  fame  long  forgot. 


Sun-rise  will  always  be  young, 

Dawn's  star  to  mountain  and  ocean  sings, 
Freshly  as  blind  Homer  sung 

God-trodden,  deathless  vision  of  things. 
Fresh  be  thy  thought  and  thy  strength  as  the  dew, 

Daring  and  deed  be  as  new. 

Hewer  of  life  to  thy  thought, 

Seer  of  visions,  dreamers  of  dreams, 

Not  less  than  others  have  wrought, 

Must  be  thy  labors;  life  with  work  teems. 

Greater  than  Hercules'  tasks  are  thine, 
Conquer  thy  world, — be  divine. 

Look  not  behind  thee,  nor  fear. 

Forward  be  thy  strong  reach,  thy  desire. 
Gaze  not  afar,  peer  thou  near. 

Truth  is  whatever  soul  can  inspire, 
Golden  those  ages  the  world  will  see, 

When  man  from  fear  shall  be  free. 

Plant  if  thou  never  may'st  reap; 

Build  if  thou  never  enter  therein; 
Gain  though  the  heavens  forbid  thee  keep, 

Pray  though  thou  only  repeat  thy  sin. 
Love  though  thy  love  be  answered  by  hate, 

Will  though  thou  wrestle  with  fate. 


[66 


The  Wakeful  Bride 

The  old  earl  lay  in  his  restless  bed, 

His  fair  bride  by  his  side. 
The  young  page  gazed  from  the  outer  tower, 

And  all  their  eyes  were  wide. 

Their  eyes  were  wide  though  the  bell  had  tolled 

Long  since  the  midnight  hour, 
And  the  moonlight  lay  as  bright  as  day, 

On  moat  and  wall  and  tower. 

For  the  moonlight  slept  in  the  garden-close, 

Whence  dreamy  perfumes  blew, 
That  filled  the  page  with  memories, 

And  wishes  vague  and  new. 

Oh!  a  summer  night  is  as  dread  as  a  ghost, 

To  hearts  that  lack  their  desire; 
For  it  tells  of  death,  but  it  wakes  to  life 

The  smouldering  heart's  pent  fire. 

The  old  earl  saw  a  ghost  that  night, 
The  ghost  of  his  youth  long  spent. 

Proud  tourneys,  battles,  far  crusades, 
Before  his  dim  eyes  went. 


[67] 


And  he  thought, — I  would  I  were  that  page, 

So  young,  so  strong,  so  gay: 
He  sleeps  like  a  log  the  longest  night, 

And  sings  like  a  lark  through  the  day. 

But  the  earl  wished  only  to  sleep  and  forget 

The  weight  of  his  wrinkled  fame, 
And  the  weary  days,  and  the  nerveless  toil 

That  guarded  his  ancient  name. 

Or  he  waked  and  wished  for  the  crimson  east, 
And  the  breeze  that  comes  with  the  dawn; 

And  the  rising  mist  from  meadow  and  lake, 
And  to  know  that  the  night  was  gone. 

But  the  page  he  gazed  at  the  garden-close, 

Below  the  outer  tower; 
At  its  moonlit  walks,  at  the  bench  by  the  pool, 

At  the  shadowy  red-rose  bower. 

"How  strange,"  he  sighed,  "that  we  are  here 

Beneath  the  selfsame  roof, — 
I  in  my  tower,  you  with  the  earl — 

Yet  heaven  holds  us  aloof. 


68 


"But  youth  is  youth  and  age  is  age, 

And  I,  if  I  were  he, 
Would  know  the  joy  the  angels  know, 

And  join  their  minstrelsy. 

"I'd  kneel  beside  your  snowy  bed, 

And  kiss  your  arms  and  your  hair; 
I'd  watch  by  your  side  till  you  waked  at  last, 

And  smiled  to  see  me  there. 

"And  hand  in  hand  the  livelong  day, 

We'd  wander  without  fear, 
In  fields  and  woods,  or  sit  and  talk 

And  laugh  to  be  so  near." 

Oh!  a  summer  night  is  as  dread  as  a  ghost, 

To  lovers  who  lack  their  desire; 
For  it  tells  of  death,  but  it  wakes  to  life 

The  slumbering  heart's  pent  fire. 

And  the  little  bride,  the  bride  of  a  year, 

Lay  still,  tear-stained  and  white, 
And  she  thought  of  the  earl  and  the  home  she  had  left, 

And  she  thought  of  the  page  so  bright. 


[69] 


"Alas!"  she  thought,  "I  have  flown  from  the  fields 
To  a  cage."     Then  for  fear  held  her  breath. 

And  the  moth  that  fluttered  in  from  her  flowers, 
Brushed  her  face  for  the  face  of  death. 

"Ah  me!  if  a  baby  gladdened  my  breast, 

Then  I  like  a  bird  would  sing; 
And  night  and  day  and  year  upon  year, 

Each  some  new  joy  would  bring. 

"A  boy  like  the  page,  yes,  that  should  he  be, 

So  noble  and  straight  and  strong. 
I'd  work  for  him,  I'd  fondle  him, 

Dear  God,  must  I  live  long?" 

Oh!  a  summer  night  is  as  dread  as  a  ghost, 
To  souls  that  have  missed  their  desire; 

For  it  tells  of  death,  but  it  wakes  to  life 
The  smouldering  heart's  pent  fire. 


70 


A  City  of  Mills 

I  cross  the  bridge  and  take  the  road, 
Climb  the  short  hill  and  then  look  back 
Upon  the  river  bare  and  broad, 
Ploughed  by  a  steamer's  foaming  track. 

Across  the  seamed  and  silver  bay, 
Where  Metacomet's  paddle  shook, 
Now  darkening  with  the  ebbing  day, 
In  wondering  joy  and  fear  I  look. 

The  western  sky  above  Mount  Hope 
More  painted  than  red  warrior's  pride, 
Brightened  the  city's  busy  slope. 
"Is  this  my  country's  fate,"  I  sighed? 

I  heard  the  chimes  from  towered  height, 
I  saw  below  the  dark  mills  lie, 
Prolonging  day  with  puny  light, 
Like  mirrors  towards  the  sunset  sky. 

A  giant  heart  throbs  in  those  walls, 
Where  shuttles  shoot  with  deafening  din; 
Where  ears  hear  not,  and  no  voice  calls; 
Where  mothers  weave  and  children  spin. 


71 


Yonder  the  Norseman  found  his  grave; 
This  soil  the  stealthy  Indian  trod, 
Fighting  our  fathers  stern  and  brave, 
Who  sought  for  freedom,  home  and  God. 

Now  alien  folk  toil  here  at  tasks 

That  strain  the  nerves  to  engine's  speed; 

The  child  of  Puritans  now  basks 

Mid  flowers  of  strife,  and  fruit  of  greed. 

Is  this  the  end  for  which  they  strove? 
Is  this  the  city  of  their  hope? 
This  the  reward,  where  virtue  throve, 
With  hate  of  kings,  of  priest  and  pope? 

Must  tyranny  forever  live, 
With  changing  dress  from  age  to  age? 
Virtue  endure,  but  till  God  give 
To  it  the  power  that  roused  its  rage? 

The  sun  went  down,  the  sky  grew  black, 
The  stars,  the  mills,  alone  gave  light. 
As  city-ward  I  hastened  back, 
I  heard  my  answer  in  the  night. 


72 


Your  faith  is  larger  than  was  theirs. 
You  trust  in  God  with  less  of  fear. 
You  know  He  for  all  children  cares, — 
The  heathen  far,  the  Christian  near. 

That  priesthood  cannot  bind  time's  feet. 
That  greed  cannot  enslave  man's  soul. 
All  races  in  the  great  race  meet, 
And  that  each  heart  must  hold  the  whole. 

Henceforth,  to  your  faith  be  as  true 
As  were  your  sires  to  their  harsh  creed. 
The  savage,  tyrant,  priest  in  you 
Slay.    Be  brother  to  all  in  deed. 


73] 


A  Nocturne 
I 

O  maiden  moon,  O  tender  rim  of  light 

A  golden  cradle  on  a  gloaming  sky; 

A  phoenix  fluttering  from  a  burning  nest, 

Above  the  fading  fires  of  the  west; 

Brand  blown  from  ashes  where  day's  glories  lie; 

You  rise,  daughter  of  day,  to  rule  the  night. 

II 

Have  you  no  mercy  on  that  earthly  maid 
Who  steals  side-glances  skyward  when  you're  due, 
And  trembles  if  she  sees  you  glowing  there? 
She  loves  and  dreads  the  fortunes  that  you  bear; 
Her  shoulders  shrinking,  her  fair  face  askew, 
To  find  you  on  the  wrong  side  sore  afraid. 

Ill 

I've  watched  your  boat  put  out  on  flaming  seas, 
Along  black  coasts  of  ragged  mountain  tops, 
Like  some  immortal  lingering  to  the  last. 
Your  low-swung  sickle,  sunny  summer  past, 
Above  the  evening  mist,  guards  tented  crops, 
While  drear  owls  whinny  in  the  dripping  trees. 


[74] 


IV 

O  earth,  is  yours  too  squalid  a  domain 
For  this  girl  Queen,  upon  whose  eyes 
Deformity  and  darkness  wrought  such  shame, 
She  could  not  bear  aloft  her  heavenly  flame, 
She  dare  not  in  your  hidden  deeds  be  wise; 
But  fled,  her  innocency  to  maintain? 

V 

O  misty,  shadowy  earth,  what  weakling  wiles 

Allured  a  heaven-born  bride  to  stay  with  you? 

Now  longer  on  your  dark  face  she  can  gaze, 

Now  fuller  light  illuminates  your  ways, 

She  blanches  not,  nor,  shuddering,  shrinks  from  view 

But  bravely  looks  on  land  and  sea  and  isles. 

VI 

Far  wandering  Queen,  grown  now  to  orbed  estate! 

The  gabbling  winds,  what  waft  they  to  your  ears, 

From  murmuring  forest  and  from  moaning  sea? 

The  story  of  Endymion's  misery? 

That  all  night  long  you  travel  but  to  hear 

A  prayer  poured  from  a  soul  disconsolate. 


75 


VII 

Have  mortal  lovers  guessed  your  wondrous  plight, 
(You  find  on  earth  a  joy  unknown  above 
And  stay  self-exiled  from  your  native  realms), 
That  they,  at  tryst  with  you  neath  village  elms, 
When  locust's  clustered  sweetness  maddens  love, 
Pass  breathing  deep  the  perfumes  of  the  night. 

VIII 

I  loved  you  best,  Empress  of  shades,  before. 
Then  your  wide  eyes  would  not  unfurl  their  light 
To  view  their  heritage;  earth's  blatant  tongue 
Spoke  words,  told  tales  unknown  to  one  so  young; 
Companioned  by  a  star,  you  swayed  the  night 
With  bashful  eyes,  nor  all  your  radiance  wore. 

IX 

O  blind  me  not  with  your  resplendent  power, 
Who  challenge  heaven's  high  kings  in  sovereignty. 
Those  princes,  banished,  feebly  shine  afar; 
For  jealous  of  the  glimmering  of  a  star, 
You  reign  alone  and  from  your  treasury 
Unloose  on  earth  and  sea  a  golden  shower. 


X 

If  fairer  beauty  rouse  me  from  fair  dreams 
To  keep  lone  vigil  while  the  weary  sleep, 
Let  woven  branches  wrap  me  in  their  night, 
Let  fretted  shade  emboss  your  golden  light, 
Nor  stand  supreme,  above  the  servile  deep, 
Restless  beneath  its  robe  of  radiant  beams. 

XI 

Or  loom,  prodigious  disc,  o'er  city  roofs, 
Your  brightness  brooding  human  wretchedness, 
Its  huddled  slumbers  and  brief  hour  of  dreams. 
Then  pitying  pour  your  glory  and  your  gleams 
Aslant  the  window  of  each  heart's  distress 
And  gild  the  pavement  hushed  of  horses'  hoofs. 

XII 

Can  heaven  not  stoop  to  earth  and  heaven  remain? 
Can  heaven  not  rule  on  earth  in  clean  attire? 
At  mortal  touch  O  must  a  goddess  die? 
Are  they  not  deathless  that  are  born  on  high, 
Who  are  not  children  of  the  muck  and  mire, 
But  from  the  gods  descended  here  to  reign. 


[77 


XIII 

Cannot  your  sisters  link  their  golden  hands 
And  rescue  you,  limed  in  earth's  poisonous  reek? 
Gaunt  death  must  be  divine  if  you  can  die; 
Sin  be  eternal  that  can  mount  the  sky 
And  kill  where  love  is  strong  and  hate  is  weak. 
Can  earth's  disasters  reach  such  distant  lands? 

XIV 

Pale  maidens  mad  for  motherhood  mock  you, 
With  self-slain  youths  frenzied  by  love's  starved  doles- 
Sad  faces  sucked  beneath  your  crawling  seas. 
These  mock  you,  dying  with  the  pangs  of  these, 
A  wan  processional  of  leaf-blown  souls, 
Fading  from  form,  whom  horror's  hounds  pursue. 

XV 

O  let  at  dawn  no  most  untimely  song, 

Of  some  sweet  bird  impatient  for  the  day, 

Awaken  me  to  mourn  at  your  sad  end. 

Your  withered  form  your  guards  will  not  defend, 

They  see  the  sun's  shield  gleaming  far  away, 

They  hear  his  car  fast  thundering  along. 


[78 


XVI 

But  fetch  me  from  the  East  an  opiate, 
Lest,  luckless,  I  espy  you  meet  the  fire 
That  gave  you  life  and  now  at  last  returns, 
That  gave  you  life  which  now  it  fiercely  burns. 
Like  morning  mists,  you,  too,  must  needs  expire 
And  round  the  circle  of  your  mortal  fate. 


79 


Ellis  Island* 

How  can  we  turn  back  to  the  ancient  world, 

With  all  its  wealth  of  wisdom,  beauty,  soul, 

Or  take  the  time  to  listen  to  its  talk; 

Descend  the  tomb's  steps  to  behold  the  past, 

And  grope  forgetful  in  another  age, — 

Exiles  ourselves  from  this  tumultuous  scene, — 

Instead  of  hastening  to  our  sunlit  hills? 

Time!  time!  O  give  me  thy  firm  hand; 

Pluck  not  away  thy  strength  till  I  am  strong, 

Until  my  voice  shall  cry  to  all  the  world, 

The  truth  of  men's  new  hope,  new  power,  new  love: 

That  man  was  made  not  for  these  miseries 

In  which  the  past  and  present  cumber  him: 

War's  brutal  harvesting  of  all  fond  hopes, 

Which  sweeps  away  the  smiling  grain  around 

The  little  home,  and  withers  up  the  heart; 

Which  turns  to  snarling  brutes  God's  likeness  in  the  flesh; 

Tears  down  the  soul  built  up  by  household  love, 

Mashes  men's  bodies  to  manure  their  fields. 

I  would  not  see  the  suns  of  other  climes, 

Nor  peer  for  pleasure  in  the  ancient  world, 

While  this  procession  vast,  of  men  alive, 

Gifted  and  awed  by  life,  pours  past  my  door. 


*EUis  Island   in   New  York  Harbor   is    the  landing  place  for  im 
migrants. 

[80] 


Whither,  O  whither,  are  these  millions  bent? 

I  know  not  though  I  see  their  partial  goal, — 

A  noble  destiny  of  love-linked  lives. 

Take,  take  me  to  your  eager  company, 

To  share  your  inextinguishable  hope 

Of  heavens  on  earth,  of  freedom,  joy  and  love. 

0  let  me  link  my  destiny  to  yours! 

Pluck  up  my  life  from  sterile  roots  and  soil; 
Transplant  it  to  your  deep  fertility, 
Within  the  hearts  and  lives  of  such  as  ye. 

1  will  not  stop,  no,  not  if  Homer  call, 

Or  Sophocles  or  Caesar,  aye  for  Dante,  no! 

Though  Shakespeare  gaze  at  me  with  Prospero's  eyes, 

I  will  not  turn  for  hosts  of  sceptered  kings 

Who  knew  the  pride  of  place  far  separate 

From  humble  struggle  for  God's  daily  bread. 

Their  time  was  theirs  and  all  the  world 

They  could  compact  within  their  minds  array. 

Our  time  is  ours.    But  how  brief  it  is 

And  pregnant  with  the  fate  of  centuries! 

My  eyes  shall  only  see  your  holy  hope, 

Your  far  crusade  to  win  no  tomb,  but  homes. 

Your  vast  adventure  seeks  to  win  no  palm 

Or  pardon  for  its  sins,  like  old  crusades; 

Or  heavens  enskied  beyond  the  bounds  of  flesh, 

But  human  homes  and  human  happiness. 


81] 


For  you  the  Past  has  failed, — 

Asia,  Africa  and  Europe  failed, 

And  all  great  states, — 

France,  England,  Germany  and  their  allies. 

All,  all  have  failed  to  give  to  you  a  home, 

Content  and  honor,  growth  and  founded  hopes; 

Their  artists,  generals,  statesmen  left  your  poor, — 

Gave  nothing  you  would  stay  for,  no  allure. 

You  turned  your  back  on  all  they  showed  and  asked 

A  wilderness  in  which  to  be  yourself; 

A  man,  free  from  servility  and  free 

Alike  from  fear  of  men  and  fear  of  gods; 

Free  footed,  free  of  thought  and  free  to  find 

The  depths  in  soul  and  nature's  unguessed  power. 

You  come  as  awful  judges  of  our  ways; 

To  see  if  we  still  keep  our  primal  gift; 

Able  to  give  to  each,  who  knocks,  his  need 

Of  larger  life,  and  world-wise  ministry. 

Or,  if  we  dull  his  mind,  steal  labor  and  despise 

The  clasped  hands  of  all  well-wishing  men, 

Until  we,  too,  are  left  like  sinking  ships 

By  future  hordes  who  seek  high  destiny. 


[82] 


New  Year's  Eve  on  Broadway 

Friends,  what  are  we  seeking  this  New  Year's  eve, 

Crowding  the  sidewalks  of  a  great  city; 

Waiting  impatiently  the  midnight  bells, 

Slowly,  solemnly  sounding  the  hour 

That  ends  a  year, — 

That  begins  a  year? 

What  means  this  tumult  of  noise? 

Trumpets  by  thousands,  whistles  of  steam 

From  dark  factories,  steamers,  ferry  boats,  tug  boats, 

Stridently  batter  the  heavens. 

My  ears  burst.    Tense,  insistent  the  cry — 

Victory's  exultation.    What  Victory? 

Life  over  another  menacing  year; 

Life  over  fate,  mishaps,  sorrow. 

So  we  scream  our  joy,  we  challenge  heaven. 

Out  of  the  battle  of  life  we  survive, 

Calling  for  more  life. 

We  join  hands.    With  whom?    No  matter. 

Young  or  old;   rich  or  poor. 

How  that  old  man  bounds  about! 

"Ladies  chain,"  with  policemen,  wild  girls,  and  bums. 

Finding  expression  at  last 

Out  of  his  dull,  dead  day, 

His  patient,  meek  toil. 


He  has  suffered  life  like  a  weight. 

Now  he  wakes,  wishes,  hopes — yes,  and  prays- 

Shouts,  dances,  joys,  fills  himself  with  life, 

Gaily  in  touch  with  his  kind, 

No  longer  grave,  quiet  or  cold; 

But  a  bursting  blossom  of  life. 


[84] 


The  Patrol  Wagon 

Out  of  the  end  of  the  wagon 

Stepped  the  police  and  their  prisoners. 

Into  the  station  they  filed. 

Laborer  in  jeans,  strong,  independent, 

What  have  you  done, 

Hiding  your  pride  by  your  swing? 

No  fellow  you  for  the  filthy  tramp, 

Shambling  behind,  seeming  so  much  at  home. 

No  fellow  you  for  the  shifty  youth 

Winking  and  grinning  from  sidewalk  to  door. 

What  you  did  I  must  know. 

I  arrested  you — I,  a  citizen. 

No,  not  with  my  hands,  but  my  agents, 

Policemen  in  blue,  now  guarding  you. 

Brutal,  impertinent,  knowing  their  power, 

Burly,  armed  with  revolvers  and  billies, 

Backed  by  their  fellows  and  what  is  called  law. 

Well — the  door  shuts — the  crowd  disappears. 
The  wagon  goes  back  for  new  loads. 
Placid,  composed,  the  driver  his  horses  turns 
And  lo!  in  their  mild  eyes  and  gentle  forms  I  see 
The  only  loving  appeal 
In  all  this  picture  of  woe. 

[85] 


The  Slate 

World  empires  are  to  God  but  school-boys  set  a  task. 

Their  task  to  learn  how  mankind  can  find  joy; 

Can  best  arrange  to  live  in  mutual  love, 

Giving  to  all  health,  justice,  mind. 

How  best  to  rule  all  nature  for  their  power; 

To  serve  themselves  and  lift  man  from  the  brute. 

But  when  the  answer  comes  before  God's  eyes, 

So  far  from  right,  with  centuries  to  try, 

He  washes  the  soiled  slate  clean  of  the  imperfect  work, 

And  Revolution  summons  a  new  class. 


[86] 


After  Forty  Years 

I  have  loved  your  face  for  many  a  year, 

My  dear. 

Your  sweet  girl  face  has  never  changed, 

Nor  your  heart  ranged, 

Always  the  same 

For  me  to  claim 

And  always  near. 

Ours  was  a  mercenary  match. 

They  say  I  bought  you. 

I  call  you  rather  "a  lucky  catch." 

You  were  knocked  down — I  caught  you. 

No  van  nor  villain  gave  the  knock. 

I  grabbed  you  from  an  auction  block. 

A  high-brow  place  for  us  to  meet 

In  an  art  store  on  Tremont  Street. 

I  was  twenty — you  sixteen. 

Another  case  of  "might  have  been." 

You  were  a  peasant  girl  and  I 

"A  judge" — of  what  to  buy. 


[87] 


Yes,  I  gave  you  all  I  had — 

My  own — I  dared  not  call  on  dad. 

The  bank  cashier  thought  I  was  mad, 

For  I  drew  my  last  dollar. 

How  I  trembled  at  each  bid, 

My  rivals,  with  large  bank  accounts, 

I  glared  at  till  they  thought  I'd  pounce. 

My  fright  by  a  grimace  I  hid, 

As  your  price  grew  taller. 

Had  their  bids  gone  a  dollar  higher, 

You'd  smile  now  by  another's  fire. 

Now  I  am  sixty,  what  of  you? 

Dear  Viennese,  child  to  my  view? 

If  living,  what?    Did  your  sons  fight 

In  the  Great  War?    Your  grandsons  might. 

Have  they  been  starving?    Have  they  been  shot 

For  pleading  for  the  common  lot? 

What  terrors  may  have  laid  you  low, 

In  a  grave  where  myrtles  grow. — 

But  the  fair  child  is  all  I  know. 

Still  from  my  walls 

Sweetly  your  girl  face  calls, 

For  that  is  all  I  know  of  you — 

Alas! — adieu! 


The  Hearth  Song 

I  am  the  hearth-fire 
Hear  me  roar  and  hiss; 
Hear  me  crackle  and  snap; 
Feed  me  that  I  burn. 

Come  near  to  me  for  warmth, 
Shy  lovers; 

For  mutual  vows  and  cozy  joys, 
For  heat  fiercer  than  love. 
Gaze  deep  and  see  your  dreams. 

I  hold  to  the  solid  earth. 
I  leap  to  the  sparkling  stars. 
I  do  both  at  once. 
That  is  my  way  of  loving. 
Is  it  yours? 

Furiously  I  flame, 

I  dart  upward. 

My  thousand  ruddy  swords  flash, 

Dipped  in  life  blood. 

I  flicker,  I  escape,  I  die. 


89 


Ha!  Ha!  your  little  loves! 
Short-lived  are  they  as  I. 
Are  they  as  bright  and  pure? 
Are  they  as  red  and  hungry  as  I  ? 


[90] 


Spring 

Bird  at  my  window, 
Why  dost  thou  sing? 
Thought  thou  the  spring 
Came  with  the  dawn's  glow? 

Thy  song  so  sweet 
Opened  my  eyes, 
With  glad  surprise, 
May  buds  to  greet. 

It  is  as  yesterday, 
Not  warm  for  long, 
So  cease  thy  song, 
'Tis  winter  not  May. 

No,  no,  sing  to  me, 
For  it  is  spring; 
If  thou  can'st  sing. 
Sing  on  full  cheerily. 


The   Search 

I  once  adored  a  woman's  face 
And  manly  beauty  gave  me  joy. 
But  why  delight  in  human  grace? 
How  soon  it  fades!     How  frail  a  toy! 

Once  I  saw  heaven  in  sunny  fields, 
On  ocean's  shore,  on  mountain  sides. 
A  mystic  light  nature  still  yields; 
But  not  for  long  man's  sorrow  hides. 

Dear  saints — a  few  such  souls  I've  known — 
Have  shared  with  me  their  peace  and  light; 
But  they  have  seemed  so  strange,  alone, 
They  gave  me  no  prolonged  delight. 

While  of  all  these  I  make  complaint, 
Still,  still  I  seek  a  beauty  rare, — 
Of  face  and  form,  of  nature,  saint, — 
But  most  a  world  redeemed  from  care. 


Loss 

She  said:   "Let  my  body  be  burned!" 
Her  beautiful  body  be  burned! — 
The  body  lips  burned  to  kiss, 
Let  flames  devour. 

The  head  no  empress  could  match, 
The  heart  so  true  to  love, 
Silent  to  woe,  still  to  wrong, 
Consumed  in  flame. 

I  weep  not  now  at  her  death. 
I  weep  that  no  lover  had  filled 
The  need  of  her  heart,  so  that  she 
Longed  to  lie  by  his  side  in  her  death. 


[93] 


The  Boy 

Why  is  it  that  mother 

Can  always  wake  up  early  and  call  me 

When  I  have  to  get  up 

At  four  o'clock  or  five  o'clock 

Or  any  old  time, 

To  go  fishing; 

Or  if  I  have  to  catch  a  train, 

To  go  out  of  town  early  for  a  football  match? 

How  is  it  that  she  can  have  a  warm  breakfast  for  me  to 

eat? 

How  is  it  that  she  of  all  the  house  is  wide  awake  ? 
Dear,  sleepless  heart  of  my  mother! 


[94l 


The  Garden  Walk 

You  planted  lilies  and  iris — both  are  here. 
Your  roses  and  your  poppies  come  each  year. 

Straighter  than  iris; 

Sweeter  than  roses  red; 

Purer  than  lilies; 

Heart's  blood  poppies  bled; 
Where  do  you  tarry,  dear? 

I  thought  I  wanted  an  old  garden  walk 
Along  which  you  and  I  could  stroll  and  talk, — 
A  red  brick  walk  with  peonies  on  each  side, 
Rose  peonies,  white,  red  and  open  wide. 

I  have  my  walk  and  peonies,  too. 
But  where,  dear  soul,  are  you? 

The  peonies  multiply  their  buds  and  blooms. 

They  fill  with  heavy  fragrance  all  my  rooms. 

But  on  the  walk  your  step  is  never  heard. 

Your  music-freighted  lips  send  from  the  tomb  no  word. 


[95 


A  Composer 

He  heard  a  music  that  he  could  not  snatch 
From  moods'  and  muses'  fitful  higher  flight. 

He  wrote  the  lower  strains  his  ears  could  catch; 
But  in  despair,  his  name  he  would  not  write. 

He  died.    His  sweet  unfathered  songs  survived, 
True,  human  voices  of  the  life  that  is. 

Men  praised:   but  only  knew  the  name  contrived 
To  hide  a  grave's  enduring  melodies. 


96] 


The  Wanderer's  Song 

My  garden  is  the  road-side  free, 
No  seed  my  hand  has  planted; 
But  there  all  flowers  bloom  for  me, 
As  in  a  land  enchanted. 

My  own  I  do  not  leave  behind, 
When  far  from  home  I  wander, 
For  where  I  pass,  my  own  I  find, 
A  wealth  I  cannot  squander. 


[97] 


Substitution 

The  tears  that  my  own  eyes  have  shed 
Are  few  to  all  the  tears  I  owe 

For  sin,  pain,  wrong,  and  for  the  dead; 
Let  me  not  cause  thy  tears  to  flow! 

For  thy  sweet  eyes  can  shine  most  bright 
Without  the  gems  that  sorrow  wears; 

Thy  radiant  soul  must  not  requite 
My  enforced  usury  of  tears. 


[98] 


The  Band 

The  band  stops  playing  that  gaily  led 
And  thrilled  the  troops  with  faith  sublime. 
Sharply  one  drum-tap  sounds  instead 
To  keep  the  tired  feet  in  time. 

Love  stops  its  music-march  of  life, 
High-stepped,  triumphant,  brave  and  clear. 
What  then  spurs  soul  to  rescuing  strife  ? 
Justice'  one  stroke  it  still  can  hear. 


99 


A  Tapestry 

Love  met  Medusa  on  the  Libyan  plains, 

Whose  serpent  locks  dart  death  at  them  that  see. 

"Ah,  boy,"  she  cried,  "the  cause  of  all  my  pains, 
At  last  sweet  vengeance  I  can  wreak  on  thee." 

Love  looked  nor  faltered  at  her  horrid  gaze. 

She  tore  her  hissing  hair  to  strike  him  dead; 
But  where  her  wild  blows  fell,  to  her  amaze, 

Red  roses  burst  in  bloom.    Love  laughing  fled. 


[  ioo  ] 


A  Call  to  Prayer 

From  the  minaret  the  Moslem 

Bids  men  pray.    "Let  all  work  wait." 

North,  south,  east  and  west  he  calls  them, 
"God  is  one  and  God  is  great." 

Far  below  a  woman  blesses 

God  in  new-found  motherhood, 

Singing  to  the  babe  she  presses, 
"God  is  love  and  God  is  good." 


[101] 


The  Musician 

There  was  a  good  musician, 

Who  loved  a  lady  fair, 
And  like  a  great  magician 

Could  charm  her  every  care. 

He  deeply  loved  the  lady, 

And  when  death  closed  her  eyes, 
For  months  no  music  played  he, 

But  gazed  into  the  skies. 

At  last  his  sombre  spirit 

Awoke  and  talked  with  hers: 

He  plays  and  she  can  hear  it. 
Ah!  how  his  music  stirs! 


[102] 


The  Golden  Cross 

A  golden  cross,  lifted  so  high, 
Above  the  noisy  thoroughfare, 

That  rarely  did  a  wandering  eye 
Discover  that  a  cross  was  there. 

But  wreathed  around  it  prayers  arise, 
And  heavenward  human  songs  ascend, 

While  motionless  against  the  skies, 
Its  silent,  golden  arms  extend. 

Upon  it  morning  sunbeams  flash, 

About  the  dark  form  star-gleams  play; 

The  wind  and  rain  against  it  dash, 
Yet  there  it  stands  unmoved  alway. 


[103] 


Lilacs 

A  welcome  of  great  lilacs  at  the  gate, 

A  purple  arch,  a  dense  screen  on  both  sides. 

Lilacs,  lilacs,  whom  do  you  await? 

The  house  is  empty  your  profusion  hides. 

Young  lovers  used  to  pluck  you  as  they  passed. 
Your  perfume,  sweet  as  love,  May  breezes  blew. 
Ah,  noble  lilacs  what  romances  last 
In  your  great  height,  fragrance  and  purple  hue. 

You  live  and  bloom  when  what  you  loved  is  gone. 
You  stand  your  ground  and  grow  when  no  one  cares. 
I  grieve  the  garden  waste  you  look  upon; 
The  burden  of  the  past  your  perfume  bears. 

The  gate  now  lies  unhinged,  yet  no  youth  comes 
With  quick  drawn  breath,  on  fire  to  learn  his  fate. 
Did  dreams  come  true  of  love,  achievement,  homes — 
Sweet  lilacs  blooming  by  a  broken  gate? 


104 


The  Sphinx 

Maiden  with  the  dreaming  eyes, 
Thou  didst  never  watch  the  Nile; 
And  the  blue  Boeotian  skies 
On  thy  birthplace  did  not  smile. 

But  the  Sphinx,  who  formed  thy  ways, 
Left  thee  heiress  of  her  art, 
Taught  those  questions  that  now  raise 
Terrors  in  thy  lover's  heart. 

"Who  will  tell  the  dream  I  see, 
Write  the  song  my  heart-beats  sing? 
He  revealing  this  to  me, 
When  he  comes  shall  be  my  king." 

Woe  to  him  who  mumbleth  here, 
Words  that  are  unmeaning  breath. 
Woe  to  him!    Let  dreadful  fear 
Hold  his  steps — they  lead  to  death. 

And  the  Sphinx  with  starry  eyes, 
Sadly  sees  the  sons  of  men 
Round  her  pathway  fall  and  die. 
How  can  she  be  but  maiden  then? 


105 


The  Waiting  Horseman 

At  every  door  where  lovers  dwell, 

A  waiting  horseman  stands. 
One  foot  set  in  the  stirrup-shell, 

The  bridle  in  his  hands. 

No  passerby  can  see  him  there, 

Nor  do  the  lovers  know. 
Their  blood  would  creep  in  cheeks  so  fair, 

Like  brooks  beneath  the  snow. 

Often  the  horseman's  weary  head 

Droops  on  his  horse's  mane. 
Now  starts  he  up,  the  swift  dream  fled — 

And  tighter  draws  the  rein. 

He  listens  long  with  stern  set  brow, 

While  darker  grows  his  face. 
He  now  is  mounted  and  is  now 

Gone,  galloped  from  the  place. 

And  now  the  door  burst  open  wide, 

The  two  sit  there  alone. 
They  may  sit  ever  side  by  side, 

But  love,  ah  love,  has  flown. 


[106 


Cophetua 

You  ask  by  what  I  was  first  bound 
And  made  her  slave.    Don't  change  the  name. 
For  it  were  nobler,  if  it  were  a  shame, 
Than  king,  if  her  I'd  never  found. 

Those  lines  that  frame  her  mouth  would  do. 
What,  never  noticed  them  ?    Ah  well 
Perhaps  'tis  best;  for  who  can  tell 
I  might  be  asking  now  and  you.  .  .  . 

O,  don't  protest!    You  think  'twas  odd? 
What  saw  I  in  the  lines?    More  prayer 
Than  such  young  little  lips  could  bear, 
Perhaps — enough,  you  laugh  and  nod. 

That  all?    Ah  no  they  tell  of  care. 
A  baby  brother  carried  long 
On  weary  arms,  lulled  by  a  song 
So  sweet  it  left  its  imprint  there. 

A  father  coming  home  at  night 
From  work,  kissed  at  the  open  door 
By  two  glad  lips.    Shall  I  say  more? 
Why  two  lines  bound  me  round  so  tight. 


[107 


The  Last  Gift 

What  can  he  give  who  has  given  his  all, 

Thrown  his  one  wreath  when  the  curtain  arose? 
Hands,  must  they  lag  when  the  heart  overflows, 

Empty  of  gifts  at  the  curtain's  last  fall? 

What  can  he  give  who  has  given  his  heart, 
Wagered  for  love  all  a  lifetime  can  gain? 
Henceforth  is  all  he  would  offer  in  vain — 

Fruitless  since  all  was  bestowed  at  the  start? 

Gone  is  his  wreath;  but  he  joins  with  the  rest, 

Gilding  his  laurel  with  loudest  encore. 

Lost  is  his  heart;  who,  then,  fain  would  give  more, 
Tested,  triumphant,  can  cry,  "Love  is  best." 


108] 


At  The  Musicale 

She  touched  my  hand  as  the  singer  sang, 

A  pressure,  and  that  was  all. 
She  knew  the  music  would  bring  a  pang 

To  my  heart  and  its  griefs  recall. 

And  no  one  saw  her  touch  my  hand, 
Save  the  singer,  of  all  the  throng, 

Who  sang  like  one  of  God's  angel  band; 
For  he  put  our  love  in  his  song. 

He  told  me  love  lives  by  hope  alone, 

By  faith  that  a  heart  is  true; 
That  love  by  night  must  weep  and  moan, 

And  restlessly  suffer  the  long  day  through. 

He  said  her  touch  meant  her  pure  soul 

Was  whispering  close  to  mine: 
"Be  strong!    If  here  this  is  the  whole, 

In  heaven  I  shall  be  thine." 


109 


The  Sea  Garden 

To  ELLEN  PAINTER  CUNNINGHAM 

You  snatched  your  garden  from  out  the  sea; 
You  fenced  in  your  garden  from  the  wave; 
But  lip  to  lip,  they  seem  to  me, 
Like  lovers  that  contact  crave. 

The  tulips  taste  the  delicate  foam; 
The  ocean  quivers  at  perfumes  sweet; 
A  crested  wave  is  her  sparkling  comb; 
Rose  petals  are  wings  for  his  feet. 

Sea  birds  tempted  away  from  the  sea, 
Landward  lured  o'er  your  flowers  hover, 
The  butterfly  and  the  honey  bee, 
Are  lost  in  mists — the  breakers'  cover. 

The  heavens  at  dawn,  sea  at  sun-setting, 
Mantle  your  garden  with  magic  hues, 
Flame  seizing  on  it,  stays  forgetting, 
Till  earth  locks  tight  what  the  heavens  lose. 


[no] 


What  Will  Love  Do? 

What  will  love  do  when  lips  are  dead; 
When  greetings,  partings,  all  are  said; 
When  lingering  kisses  eloquence 
Is  vain  as  Persian  kings'  expense; 

All  ashes  overgrown  with  yew; — 

What  will  love  do? 

This  flame  we  feed  by  look  and  touch, 
In  death's  eyes  will  it  matter  much? 
The  sense  is  now  the  spirit's  lute. 
If,  sense  destroyed,  no  substitute 

Shall  give  love  voice  for  song  anew,- 

What  will  love  do? 


[ill] 


Light  Lingers  Long 

Light  lingers  long  as  Winter  wears  to  Spring, 
And  O  my  heart  can  hear  those  choirs  sing, 
That  break  the  brief  spell  of  a  Summer's  night 
And  herald  days  that  swoon  at  noon  of  light. 
Now,  though  around  my  door  cold  March  winds  throng, 
Light  lingers  long. 

I  wake  and  laugh  to  see  the  yellow  sun 
An  hour  when  winter  nights  had  long  to  run: 
And  when  I  see  where  once  I  played  the  mole, 
As  hours  of  insight  lengthen  in  my  soul, 
I  will  not  chide  a  world  of  pain  and  wrong, — 
Light  lingers  long. 


Shadows 

If  all  the  year  were  June, 

With  tangled  roses  and  the  bumble-bee, 

In  honeysuckle  murmuring  happily, 
In  lilies  deep  asleep  at  noon; 

While  sweet  birds  fill  the  sky, 

How  could  I  die? 

If  all  the  year  were  night, 

A  tempest  past,  the  pure  moon  shining  clear, 

When  all  the  glowing  stars  in  heaven  seem  near 
The  slumbering  earth  wrapped  in  still  light; 

When  pain  is  hushed  in  sleep, 

How  could  I  weep? 


A  Lancashire  Lover 

(At  the  Undertaker's) 

"Tis  so  sudden  and  strange 

To  me. 
You  are  used  to  the  dead, — 

Used  to  see 

The  closed  eyes,  to  arrange 
The  cold  hands,  the  stiff  head. 

You  can't  feel  as  I  feel; 

For  you 
Know  the  shrouds  you  will  need 

The  year  through. 
You  buy  land,  and  a  deal 
Of  trade  warrants  the  deed. 

A  week  since  I  saw  her. 

The  night 
Seems  now  distant  as  Noah. 

Ah, — how  bright 
Was  the  kitchen;  like  myrrh 
Smelled  the  fresh-washed  pine  floor. 


[114! 


She  talked,  laughed,  I  was  dumb, 

Until, 
Shamefaced,  I  showed  the  ring. 

O,  I  still 

See  her  lips  as  her  thumb 
She  slipped  through  the  great  thing. 

For  you  see  I  told  clerk 

At  store, 
'Twas  for  me,  was  the  ring. 

Now  I  swore 
It  was  big  as  a  park, 
Said  a  smaller  I'd  bring. 

Then,  next  day,  she  fell  sick, — 

A  maid 
With  no  home  of  her  own, 

Though  she  prayed, 
Yet  they  sent  her  off  quick 
To  the  work-house,  alone. 


["5] 


While  I  laughed  o'er  my  loom, 

And  felt, 
Now  and  then,  for  the  ring 

'Neath  my  belt, 
Wishing  week-end  would  come, 
Little  dreaming  the  sting. 

Planned  the  house  we  should  have, 

We  two; 
Carpet,  table,  chairs,  stove, 

What  we'd  do: — 
She  lay  dying,  the  grave 
Was  a-beckoning  my  love. 

Aye,  she  died  more  of  shame? 

Tis  like. 
I'll  complete  here  my  vow. 

I  could  strike: — 
But  'tis  useless  to  blame! 
May  she  have  the  ring  now? 


116 


Compensation 

When  gallant  robins  sing 
Through  loosened  sweets  of  Spring, 
As  you  plod  off  to  work, 
Wish  not  to  change  or  shirk 
The  day's  routine,  dear  soul; 
But  view  the  whole. 

When  moon  and  stars  shine  bright 
Some  night,  some  summer  night, 
And  weary,  you  must  sleep 
And  cannot  vigil  keep, 
Sigh  not,  alas!  dear  soul; 
But  view  the  whole. 

When  music's  choirs  complain 
In  melancholy  strain, — 
"All  beauty  must  decay, 
Let  love  then  seize  the  day." 
Fear  not  such  loss,  dear  soul; 
But  view  the  whole. 


[117] 


When  pleasure  bands  you  see 
As  you  go  thoughtfully, 
Cast  down  by  sin  and  woe, 
Long  not  their  joy  to  know. 
Love  thine  own  tears,  dear  soul, 
And  view  the  whole. 

"What  is  the  whole?"  you  ask, 
"The  face  within  the  mask?" 
That  beauty's  self  you  are, 
When  ruled  by  duty's  star. 
Not  to  enjoy,  but  be,  dear  soul, 
That  is  the  whole. 


November 

I  push  in  my  house-door  wide. 

The  fallen,  sear  leaves  outside, 

Aswirl  in  the  autumn  wind, 

Like  stealthy  souls  that  have  sinned, 

All  shrunken  and  hectic,  dry, 

Outstrip  me  and  hasten  by 

O'er  vestibule,  hall  and  stair, 

They  rattle  and  battle  there; 

As  if  to  forsake  the  dead, 

The  swift  coming  cold,  the  dread, 

To  flee  from  the  Winter's  storm 

And  tawn  on  the  live,  the  warm, 

In  search  of  the  fire's  glow, 

The  Summer  dead  long  ago. 

But  I — I  must  close  the  door, 

Across  the  bright,  leaf-strewn  floor. 

The  leaves  underneath  my  feet 

Must  wander  again  the  street, 

From  hearth  and  from  heart  swept  away; 

Or,  I  perish,  too,  as  they. 


119] 


Behind  The  Lotus-Flower 

Behind  the  lotus-flower  the  treasure  lies, 
In  white  and  gold  pagodas  Burma  builds 
To  great  lord  Buddha  of  the  eight-fold  way. 
Not  in  the  dirt  where  alien  soldiers  dig, 
Nor  far  above  where  purest  gold  caps  all; 
But  in  the  midst  behind  the  sovereign  bloom, 
There  lies  the  treasured  image  of  the  God. 
Then  seek  not,  brother,  for  the  gift  of  gifts, 
Thy  life's  sweet  secret,  solemn  and  so  brief, 
In  things  below,  though  lovely  is  the  earth, 
Nor  in  the  heavens,  though  lofty  is  the  sky; 
For  in  thyself  the  richest  wonder  lies. 


120] 


The  Lover 

I  love  her  body  and  her  soul, 

But  I  must  choose. 
Alas!  her  heart,  it  is  so  kind, 
So  sweet  her  body,  pure  her  mind, 

I  would  not  lose 
A  petal  of  the  perfect  whole. 

Her  gentle  spirit  wounds  her  flesh, 

She  feeleth  woe 

So  keenly.    Sorrow,  pain  and  sin 
Gaze  at  her  all  bright  within 

And  grieve  her  so, 
Tears  mar  the  body's  golden  mesh. 

Her  face  is  fair  as  temple  gates. 

I  linger  there 

And  look  and  love,  then  reverently 
Pass  in,  the  fairer  soul  to  see; 

Nor  may  compare 
The  door  to  what  within  awaits. 

For  there  are  angel  choirs  heard 

And  heaven's  appeal. 
There  jeweled  windows,  mystic  sight, 
Reveal  their  beauty  and  the  light; 

So  there  I  kneel 
Me  down  and — worship — is  the  word. 

[121] 


Hero  At  Sestos 

Will  he  not  come  tonight? 

Moon  and  ye  stars,  shine  bright, 

Tell  him  to  come  tonight. 

For  my  heart  yearns  for  him, 

And  my  brow  burns  for  him; 

His  voice  will  rule  it, 

His  kiss  will  cool  it. 

How  can  his  heart  be  cold 

When  mine  is  uncontrolled? 

Or  his  glance  not  reply 

To  the  love  in  mine  eye? 

O,  if  such  things  can  be, 

End,  heart,  thy  misery. 

If  he  though  far  away, 

Voices  did  not  obey, 

Voices  of  sense  that  tell 

What  my  heart  cannot  quell — 

Its  longing,  its  yearning — 

Did  he  not  turning 

Come  to  me  never  so  far — 

Then,  cloud  ye,  moon  and  star; 

Let  him  not  come  tonight, 

E'en  though  my  heart  might — 

Hark,  heart!    Whose  step  is  this? 

Foolish  heart,  why  doubt  thy  bliss? 

Doubting  lips  may  kiss — may  kiss. 

[122] 


Fuji-Yama 

I  turned,  and  seeing  Fuji,  thought  I  dreamed: — 

A  mountain  in  the  moon,  so  far  and  white, 

So  white  and  still,  slow  motioned  towards  the  sky, 

So  strong  on  earth,  so  merged  with  all  above. 

No  ragged  strife  of  summit  cut  the  heavens, 

No  agony  of  struggle  petrified, 

Nor  humble  head  bowed  by  the  glacier's  hand. 

Why  vex  with  thought,  when  Fuji  sits  serene? 
Why  fret  and  fume,  when  his  white  head  is  cold? 
Why  fear,  when  he  so  near  to  heaven,  is  calm? 


[123] 


Burd  Helen 

Wan  maid,  what  is  your  woe? 
Beside  his  horse  you  go 

Awearily. 

Clasp  her,  O  cruel  knight, 
Upon  your  steed  so  white; 

Speak  cheerily. 

O'er  bare,  sad  moors  you  roam, 
Girl  page.    Where  is  your  home, 

Your  kith  and  kin? 
Now  at  the  water's  edge, 
Alas,  he  gives  no  pledge. 

Black  death  and  sin! 

Wan  maid,  what  is  your  woe? 
Torn  feet,  dazed  brain?    "Ah,  no! 

Alack-a-day! 
I  love  and  am  disdained, 
I  follow,  for  I'm  chained. 

Ah,  well-a-way!" 

"The  pangs  that  pierce  my  side 
Would  stay,  though  I  did  ride 

The  livelong  day. 
Death  stares  if  I  turn  back, 
Death  lurks  along  my  track, 

In  love's  dark  way." 

[124] 


Two  Roses 

Were  you  to  blame, 

Child  Love, 
That  as  they  came 
So  merrily  across  the  fields, 

A  wild-rose-laden  limb, 
Teased  her  to  pluck  the  flower  it  yields 

For  him? 

Did  you  then  pull, 

Boy  Love, 

Your  small  hand  full 
Of  petals,  dropping  one  by  one 

O'er  your  palm's  crumpled  rim, 
Until  you  left  the  husk  alone 

For  him  ? 

What  a  prank  you  played, 

Fie  Love! 
Another  maid 
Laughed  out,  "Wilt  thou  my  sweet  bud  have?" 

And,  then,  was  it  your  whim? 
Plucked  out  the  stem  the  first  girl  gave 

To  him. 


125] 


The  Rug 

O  Siva! 

Beat  my  soul  like  a  rug 
Spread  on  the  grass, 
Struck  by  tough  saplings. 
Till  it  wrinkles  and  writhes, 
And  the  dust  rises, 
Blown  off  by  the  wind. 
So  make  my  soul  clean, 
Yes,  soft  for  thy  feet, 
O  Siva! 


[126] 


The  Past 

O  for  the  songs  that  maids  sang  in  times  past 

To  ease  their  hearts; 
Sang  in  the  Spring, 
When  rivers  flow  again, 
When  violets  bloom  and  phoebes  build  their  nests! 

O  the  bright  eyes  and  hot  cheeks 

Awaiting  young  lovers, 
In  summer  dusk, 
When  work  was  done, 
And  cattle  crunched  the  corn  in  stanchioned  rows! 

Faded  the  eyes  and  cold  the  cheeks; 

Ceased  is  the  singing. 
The  rivers  flow, 
The  dark  falls; 
But  the  girls  do  not  come. 
God,  what  have  you  done  with  their  love! 


[127 


The  Mourning  Lover 

"The  fields  of  May  are  fresh  and  green 
Where  children  circle  round  their  'queen' 
The  ordered  orchard's  blossoming  trees 
Are  robbed  of  sweets  by  murmuring  bees." 
But  when  they  told  him  this  he  saith, 
"I'm  dreaming  of  the  fields  of  death." 

"Your  friends  are  following  the  May; 
Enwreathed  they  dance;   in  sunshine  play. 
All  life  and  love  are  at  their  prime, 
Come,  choose  your  love  in  love's  own  time.' 
But  when  they  told  him  this  he  saith: 
"My  love  is  walking  now  with  death." 

"Ah,  do  not  mourn,  for  you  are  young. 
Come  and  be  gay,  your  friends  among. 
For  all  the  joy  of  life  is  love, 
As  poets  sing  and  age  can  prove." 
But  when  they  told  him  this  he  saith: 
"Will  she,  then,  find  no  love  in  death?" 

O  Tell  me  where  she  walks  today, 

When  all  your  hearts  burst  with  the  May! 

O  tell  me,  if  in  some  high  sphere 

She  finds  the  love  she  sought  for  here? 

If  this  you  cannot  tell,  he  saith, 

"Then  leave  me  to  my  tryst  with  death." 

[128! 


Three  Baby  Verses 

To  Muriel  Groff 

I 

Far  away,  far  away 
On  a  bank  one  summer's  day — 
The  warmth  of  the  grass  is  the  warmth  of  the  sun, 
And  lazily  the  river  doth  run — 
Which  way! 

A  floating  beetle,  a  bit  of  grass, 
Watch  and  you  will  see  it  pass. 
The  blue  of  the  sky, 
So  deep  doth  lie — 
It  doth  stay. 

Hear!  hark!    Tis  the  catbird's  mew, 
In  the  alders  hid  from  view, 
Bound  with  clematis  all  through. 
"Summer's  heat  and  summer's  sun, 
Joy,  joy,  joy" — her  song  is  done. 
Hush!  that  splash  is  a  hungry  trout; 
Dozing  waterbug  look  out, 
And  the  ripples  circle  and  cease. 


[129] 


II 

The  moon  shines  so  bright, 

The  stars  have  ta'en  flight 

For  the  little  stars  say, 

"Why  'tis  bright  as  the  day; 

Let  us  off  and  away. 

The  earth  will  not  miss  us, 

Love's  kisses  delicious, 

Tonight  will  not  kiss  us. 

To  the  moon  is  each  vow, 

By  the  moon  all  will  trow, 

To  us  none  will  bow. 

Let  us  cover  our  eyes; 

Let  us  sail  o'er  the  skies, — 

And  sail  and  sail  and  sail, 

And  dream,  nor  hear  earth's  wail; 

And  dream  nor  see  night  pale." 


Ill 

By  the  summer  roadside 
In  bushes  huddling, 
Three  children  I  saw, 
Scared  by  the  motor's  rush, 
With  sweet  faces  peering 
As  we  went  by; 
Confronting  fears  and  danger, 
With  loveliness  of  mien. 
What  can  the  world  dash  at  me 
With  dangers  and  power  to  kill, 
That  I  should  not  confront 
As  simply  and  sweetly  as  they? 


Tankas* 
I 

Wondering  I  heard 
Glorious  Nikko's  temple  bell 
Sound  through  ancient  groves. 
Questioning,  I  learned  its  bronze, 
Vibrant,  was  mingled  with  gold. 

II 

Harshly  loud  the  key 

Shrieked  as  it  locked  tight  his  tomb; 

But  from  a  pine  bough 

Sweetly  a  robin's  song  trilled. 

Widow,  yes,  clasp  close  his  child! 

Ill 

Fields  and  hills  I  saw, 

Staked  out  in  lots,  paths  and  ponds — 

A  cemetery. 

Soon  I  passed  again  and  found 

Populous  homes  of  the  dead. 

IV 

Into  my  room  flew 

Once  in  the  spring  a  song-bird 

Dazed  with  joy  of  dawn. 

But  in  the  fall,  on  my  bed, 

Night  hurled  a  withered,  red  leaf. 

*The  Tanka  is  a  Japanese  form  of  verse  which  contains  the  equivalent 
in  English  of  thirty-one  syllables. 


Quatrains 

I 

Who  sees  Apollo  feels  himself  divine. 
Although  his  life  a  lowly  course  must  run, 
Yet  in  his  heart  he  foots  it  with  the  sun, 

And  circles  where  immortal  hours  shine. 

II 

Still  yellow  moon  in  the  mist  of  the  east 

You  bring  joy. 
Love  a  sad  heart  from  vain  hopes  has  released. 

Kindly  boy! 

Ill 

Above  all  cities  arch  the  skies, 
Beneath  them  bends  the  ground: — 
Nature  enough  for  any  eyes, 
If  they  will  look  around. 

IV 

Young  Cupid  flies  in  foul  and  fair, 
In  rain  and  shine  he  gathers  spoil. 
What  does  he  for  the  weather  care? 
Sweet  boy,  he  has  no  clothes  to  soil. 


Neglected   Pastures 

This  is  a  legacy  of  love 

To  earth's  unplowed  fields, 

Where  only  weeds  grow, 

That  when  I  am  dead 

They'll  know  that  they  have  lost  a  friend. 

These  unfilled  fields, 

Unvisited 

Except  by  birds,  butterflies  and  bees. 

I  loved 

These  tough,  rank,  vigorous  growths 
On  stony  hillsides, 
On  damp,  undrained  bottom  land, 
Unharrowed,  cropless, 

Their  rough,  uneven  surfaces  and  broken  down  walls. 
No  fertile  fields  with  scarecrows  guarding  them 
Have  pleased  me  more 
Than  tangled  fields 
Of  deep  purple  iron  weed, 
Of  pink  Joe-pie  weed, 
The  elderberry's  royal  hue. 
The  jewel  weed's  orange  drops, 
The  hog  plant's  flame, 
The  butterfly  weed, 
The  branching  wild  sun-flowers, 
The  brown  cat  o'  nine  tails,  shaped  like  skyrockets, 
Amongst  plumed  grasses, 
Picked  out  with  drooping  red  lillies. 

[134] 


Sonnets  of  Seasons 

I 

SPRING 

Instead  of  thinking  man  were  I  a  tree, 
When  barren  Winter's  snow-wrapped  slumbers  break 
Upon  a  world  of  verdure,  I'd  awake 
All  blossoms  sweet  for  nestling  bird  or  bee. 
As  petals  fell  young  fruit  would  cover  me, 
Warm-ripening  in  the  sun,  till  Fall  would  shake 
My  shriveled  leaves,  from  heavy  branches  take 
The  ruddy  rounds  and  rock  me  drowsily. 
But  lordly  man  whose  free  intelligence 
Exalts  him  master  of  the  earth,  may  show 
No  flower  in  youth,  no  fruit  as  age  appears. 
God  grant  my  free  mind  prove  its  high  pretense, 
Nor  yield  returns  less  sure  than  those  that  grow 
On  each  gnarled  apple-tree  the  green  earth  bears. 


135 


II 

SUMMER 

I  stand  outside  a  church  this  summer  day; 
The  sky  is  blue  above  the  golden  cross, 
Around  me  purple  lilacs  droop  and  toss, 
Among  the  trees  the  birds  sing  blithe  and  gay. 
Through  open  windows  floats  a  solemn  lay, 
A  funeral  hymn  wailing  a  human  loss 
O'er  a  loved  body,  soon  forsaken  dross. 
Hark!  now  the  organ  ceases.    Hush!  they  pray. 
O  barren  brightness  of  the  summer  skies! 
O  singing  birds,  and  warm,  sweet-scented  wind! 
Ye  tell  me  not  to  whom  those  voices  sound. 
Fair  nature,  heaven  enough  to  my  poor  eyes, 
O  bid  me  not  in  thee  my  joy  to  find! 
No  lasting  peace  is  in  thy  beauty  found. 


136] 


Ill 

AUTUMN 

I  walk  through  silent  showers  of  golden  leaves. 
As  startled  from  a  dream,  the  bright  fall'n  things 
Leap  up  and  bind  me  in  their  magic  rings, 
Weird,  whirling  circles  as  an  old  witch  weaves. 
High  up  above  the  trees,  a  sea-gull  cleaves 
The  moist,  gray  sky,  now  up,  now  down,  nor  sings 
One  note; — no  music  Autumn  with  her  brings 
Except  the  wind  that  lulls  while  it  bereaves. 
A  slender  elm  twig,  trembling  with  the  care, 
Supports  an  oriole's  deserted  nest; 
The  brilliant  bird  flies  now  in  southern  air 
Where  ruffling  cold  no  longer  chills  her  breast. 
So  shall  the  soul  when  frosty  fall  days  come, 
Abandon  earth's  abode  and  seek  a  fairer  home. 


IV 

WINTER 

I  would  some  year  my  life  were  like  this  day — 
This  autumn  day,  when  but  a  few  remain 
Before  cold  flakes  descend  upon  the  plain — 
A  revery  with  face  turned  back  to  May. 
The  crops  are  harvested  and  stored  away, 
The  leaves  are  shed;  amid  the  stubble  grain 
The  bonfires  smoke,  like  incense  in  a  fane, 
A  cleansing  rite  the  fertile  furrows  pay. 
Earth's  labor  done,  before  December  snows, 
These  last  warm  days  turn  back  to  merry  Spring 
And  dream  along  the  fragrant  path  they  came. 
Happy  the  life  that  pausing  at  its  close, 
Can  smile  upon  the  past  without  a  sting, 
And  smiling  turn  to  pay  death's  wintry  claim. 


138 


An  Italian  Sonnet-Sequence 
I 

Take  not  your  fingers  from  the  ivory  keys, 
But  let  them  linger,  straying  here  and  there; 
Or  let  them  sink  melodiously  where 
Lie  fair,  locked  pearls  in  music's  sobbing  seas. 
We  look  and  smile,  artless  of  what  doth  please 
Us,  for  our  lips  are  dumb,  sealed  with  despair 
To  say  the  happiness  our  mute  hearts  bear 
And  cannot  tell  except  in  strains  like  these. 
Then  go  not.    Hold  that  last  note  ere  it  flee. 
Weave  thy  sweet  themes  anew,  until  they  wind 
A  golden  maze  of  dreams  and  harmony. 
One  wayward  note  adventurous  way  may  find 
Where  timid  love  in  silence  sits  enshrined, 
And  break  his  lips  to  song  in  sympathy. 


II 

What  is  the  hand  but  a  good  instrument 

Wherewith  to  fetch  or  carry,  give  or  take. 

Formed  with  no  other  worth,  than  for  the  sake 

Of  power  to  guide  some  force  to  mind's  intent? 

A  worthless  shell,  in  which  a  pearl  is  pent; 

A  shapely  rind  from  which  the  fruit  we  break; 

A  vessel  full  of  wears  of  Indian  make, 

Built  for  its  cargo  from  the  Orient. 

"Why,  then,"  cried  heart,  "Why  am  I  throbbing  so?" 

"O,  then,"  cried  eyes,  "Why  do  we  shine  so  bright?" 

"And  I,"  cried  hand,  "Why  am  I  satisfied? 

When  you  but  touch  a  lady's  hand  we  know?" 

Now,  on  your  faith,  are  you  consistent  quite? 

No  gift  in  that  small  palm  have  we  espied. 


Ill 

Though  love  capricious  vex  the  dial's  pace 
And  run  or  halt,  but  will  not  tamely  go; 
And  night  with  all  her  starry  signs  will  know, 
While  to  the  day  he  yields  night's  dreaming  place; 
Though  from  my  love  hope  sternly  hide  her  face, 
Turning  meek  love  away  in  shame  and  woe: 
Or  raze  the  seasons'  boundaries  and  bestow 
One  wintry  name  on  all  the  four  embrace; — 
Love,  prison  me,  lest  I  a  traitor  prove 
And  don  the  uniform  that  Stoics  wear, 
Impervious  to  laughter,  scorn  or  tears. 
Were  all  the  hours,  torturers  of  love, 
Memory  a  pang  and  onward  look  despair, 
Still  I  would  be  thy  subject,  King  of  Fears. 


[141] 


IV 

The  Alchemist  long  since  left  his  dark  cell, 

The  cold,  white  ashes  ceased  like  gold  to  glow. 

What  are  these  magic  arts  that  you  now  show, 

Transmuting  life  by  a  mysterious  spell? 

The  rose  I  gave  like  any  rose  did  smell. 

What  primal  breathings  through  your  red  lips  flow? 

For  had  you  dropped  the  flower  you  kissed,  I  know 

A  soul  had  sunk  and  pined  in  bitter  hell. 

O  since  the  time  you  took  my  rose  of  earth 

And  all  day  long  the  heeded  bud  you  wore, 

No  rose  a  rose  alone  will  bloom  for  me. 

For  now  I  know  the  secret  of  soul  birth, 

How  earthly  dust  may  have  a  deathless  core, 

All  life  turn  soul,  burned  by  love's  alchemy. 


142! 


V 

Deep  inundation  floods  my  pleasant  plain, 

Blotting  the  ordered  fields  from  hill  to  hill; 

The  green  heights  lie  like  emeralds  fall'n  at  will, 

The  gold  links  broken  that  once  bound  the  chain. 

Now  foul,  black  clouds  my  sunny  heaven  stain, 

With  here  and  there  a  rift  the  blue  depths  fill. 

What  areas  of  darkness,  cold  and  still, 

Lie,  trackless,  'twixt  the  bright  stars  of  the  Wain! 

A  barren  desolation  drowns  my  days: 

Mere  scattered  peaks  of  time  I  now  behold 

Which  mischief  Love  has  named — Rare  sights  of  thee. 

Since,  then,  my  life  so  little  land  displays, 

Appear,  I  pray,  as  Thetis  might  of  old, 

And  stay  this  swift  encroachment  of  the  sea. 


143] 


VI 

As  a  dark  heathen,  lord  of  captive  knights, 

Scowls  jealous-eyed  fretting  lest  they  break  free 

And  wreaks  his  hate  in  constant  cruelty, 

But  spares  their  lives  that  ranson  rich  requites: 

And  when  day's  woes  are  drowned  in  starry  nights 

And  their  swart  captor  sleepeth  stupidly, 

Those  knights,  chain  harnessed,  wake  to  liberty 

And  tell  strange  tales  till  dawn  their  prison  lights: 

So  tyrant  mind  permits  of  thee  no  thought, 

Famishes  heart,  laughs  at  a  time  for  love, 

But  teaches  every  hour  the  world's  rough  might. 

At  last  when  sleep  steals  reason's  keys,  gold-wrought, 

And  locks  him  safe,  in  dreams  of  thee  I  rove 

In  endless  revel  through  the  fairy  night. 


144 


VII 

Not  for  my  skilless  hand  that  fond  deceit 

He  knew,  whose  pious  heart  kindled  to  paint 

On  high  cathedral  walls  a  deathless  saint, 

And  for  her  face  and  form  find  beauty  meet. 

Ah,  what  face  can  his  brush,  bewitched,  repeat, 

Save  hers  for  whom  his  temples  throb  and  faint? 

So  kneeling  ages  make  their  holy  plaint 

In  lowly  worship  at  his  mistress'  feet. 

No,  my  poor  love  must  run  an  earthly  pace, 

Nor  borrow  adoration  from  a  shrine 

To  light  thy  steps  down  an  immortal  way. 

Yet  listen,  for  my  bosom  holds  thy  face! 

It  would  be  holy  for  such  love  as  thine, 

And  deathless  are  the  hues  its  walls  display. 


VIII 

What  classic  form  can  hold  the  restless  song 
That  day  and  night  the  world  is  chiming  me, 
Rending  my  heart  with  its  discordancy? 
"Pain,  pain  is  right;  joy,  joy,  ah!  joy  is  wrong." 
Now  on  these  April  lawns  the  robins  throng 
And  sing,  "O  happy  love,  O  ecstasy." 
A  voice  beside  me  mutters,  "Charity." 
"Yes,"  cowering  wretch,  "to  one  God  we  belong." 
"Love,  love,  O  love,"  all  sunny  places  sing. 
"Nay,  suffer,  suffer,"  cries  each  human  sight, 
"Thy  garland  be  the  crown  thy  Lord  did  wear." 
My  heart  was  faint  at  thought  of  suffering, 
Until  Love  whispered:   "First  be  my  true  knight, 
Or  pain  can  find  no  load  for  you  to  bear." 


146] 


IX 

The  monstrous  sea  could  well  engulf  the  land, 

Mere  islands  in  its  flood,  the  continents  lie. 

Forever  with  a  wild  barbaric  cry, 

It  beats  against  the  barriers  of  the  strand, 

In  night's  dark  halls,  lit  up  from  Hesperus'  brand. 

A  million  more  bright  lamps  could  swing  on  high. 

O'er  half  the  earth  the  dust  of  deserts  fly, 

And  bury  blooming  flowers  beneath  their  sand. 

Even  so  from  birth  until  our  last  long  breath, 

Absence  assails  our  beating  hearts'  frail  shore, 

And  laughs  to  see  love's  moments  wash  away. 

Since  life  and  love  are  battled  so  by  death, 

By  voids,  deserts  and  seas  in  conflict  sore, 

Why  go  we  separate  through  the  so  short  day  ? 


[147] 


X 

Death  the  revealer  cast  his  portals  wide, 

With  torch  held  high  he  peered  without  awhile, 

Then  looked  toward  me  and  with  a  radiant  smile 

He  beckoned  one  who  stood  close  by  my  side. 

My  tears  fell  down  me  like  a  sobbing  tide 

That  mourns  its  ebb  back  from  a  happy  isle. 

With  hands  outstretched  I  paused  at  that  dread  stile; 

But  she  he  motioned  tarried  not  nor  hied. 

I  looked  at  death,  but  saw  life's  quenchless  light; 

Disease's  havoc  lay  defeated,  an 

Immortal  self,  strong,  loving,  pure  she  showed. 

Then  spread  a  magic  pathway  in  my  sight, 

A  bridge  of  Chinevat,  sin  cannot  span, 

Whereon  she  passed  within  death's  bright  abode. 


148 


XI 

As  one  who  plays  a  lovingly-held  lyre 
Deep  in  the  night,  till  dreams  his  lids  surprise, 
When  his  friend  softly  pillows  him  and  tries 
To  free  the  fingers  from  the  close-clasped  wire 
That,  smitten,  sounds  alarm  to  rouse  its  sire; 
So  gently  loose  my  love  from  one  that  plies 
Sweet  music  for  my  soul — from  memories, — 
Vain,  backward  yearnings  when  I  ought  aspire. 
Not  as  a  frightened  mother  flings  afar 
A  poisonous  weed  her  little  child  grasped  tight; 
But  as  a  mother  takes  her  daughter's  hands 
That  clasp  a  husband's  neck,  he  pledged  for  war,- 
So  loosen  love  from  that  stern  self  must  fight, 
Aye,  fight  and  conquer  yet  in  distant  lands. 


149 


PRESENT  DAY  SONNETS 

The  Christ 
I 

"A  gift  I  have,  a  sore  perplexity, 

That  pains  me  like  a  friend's  farewell  embrace, 

Or  unavailing  grief  o'er  a  dead  face, 

The  gift  of  love  which  Thou  hast  given  me. 

The  hearts  of  men  and  women  I  can  see: 

Their  hopes  and  transports,  bright  with  heavenly  grace, 

Their  sin  and  torture,  twined  with  hell's  grimace; 

But  I  am  dumb  to  speak  my  ecstasy. 

How  can  I  tell  them  all  the  love  I  bear? 

Nay,  would  they  understand  my  words  or  heed, 

What  can  I  do  this  utmost  love  to  show, — 

One  utterance,  one  deed  the  world  can  share? 

Like  dripping  breasts  my  heart  with  love  doth  bleed, 

O,  I  would  die  if  all  mankind  might  know. 


[150] 


II 

"Would  I  could  give  that  naked  man  my  cloak, 

And,  Father,  heal  that  leper's  foul  disease, 

Could  blot  sin  from  each  criminal  heart,  could  ease 

The  laborer's  load,  give  bread  where  starved  men  choke. 

Would  I  could  give  them  peace  that  are  heart-broke 

And  pour  new  wine  upon  old  losses'  lees. 

At  every  step  the  needy  on  me  seize; 

My  hands  alone  cannot  lift  every  yoke." 

Then  his  soul  heard:  "Be  rich  in  life,  not  gifts 

That  pass  like  morning  dews;  but  give  instead 

A  dower  for  all  ages  and  all  needs. 

Thy  soul  perfect  through  suffering,  till  it  lifts 

The  burden  of  a  self  forever  dead, 

From  all  mankind,  and  new  conditions  breeds." 


The  Altar-Rail 

Their  hands  they  hold  across  the  altar-rail, 

From  various  need  reached  toward  a  common  hope. 

In  scraps  of  prayer  and  errant  thought  they  grope 

A  solace  for  their  souls  that  will  not  fail. 

O  piteous  hands!    Poor,  puny  hands!  too  frail, 

Were  you  outstretched  by  emperor  or  pope, 

To  grasp  the  titan  world,  with  sin  to  cope, — 

Gnarled,  jeweled,  soiled,  thin,  palsied,  pale. 

God  fill  these  hands,  of  you  they  ask  an  alms. 

The  world  has  given,  but  the  hands  still  plead; 

The  world  has  taken,  you  alone  can  fill. 

O  love  divine,  heap  with  hid  gifts  these  palms. 

O  Christ's  sweet  love,  supply  each  bowed  soul's  need,- 

A  human  clasp  moved  by  a  heavenly  will. 


Our  Looms 

"Rich  stuffs  our  looms  weave  for  fair  ladies'  wear." 

So  read  the  caption  in  the  daily  press; 

Then  followed  fabrics  in  which  women  dress, 

Whose  costly  garments  win  a  beggar's  stare. 

Our  looms  weave?    No!  but  men  and  women,  where 

Looms  roar  Niagara-like,  whose  strain  and  stress 

Dull  ears  and  eyes  and  soul, — a  weariness 

Rare  pleasure  cannot  lift  or  night  repair. 

Our  looms  weave?    No!  but  men  become  machines, 

Which  wages,  dropping  scanty  oil,  supply. 

The  helps  mind  conjured  here  destroy  the  mind; 

For  flesh  and  soul  are  fed  to  make  sateens, 

While  spindles,  shuttles,  faster,  faster,  fly, 

The  brutish  engine  like  all  tyrants  blind. 


Street  Musicians 

As  once  a  noisy  car  bore  me  along, 

I  met  a  group  of  street  musicians.    They 

Were  near  me,  but  I  could  not  hear  them  play, — 

I  only  marked  the  influence  of  their  song: 

The  violinist's  eyes  flash  at  the  throng, 

The  harper's  fingers  through  the  dumb  strings  stray. 

I  saw  the  girl's  throat  swell,  as  in  her  lay 

She  found  a  moment  she  would  fain  prolong. 

Thy  saints  their  glorious  viols  strike,  O  Lord, 

I  see  them  stand  and  know  they  sing  to  me; 

But  life's  confusion  dulls  my  spirit's  ear. 

I  catch,  now  here,  now  there,  some  broken  chord, 

Though  my  ears  strain  towards  heaven's  minstrelsy. 

O  give  me  peace  that  I  the  whole  may  hear! 


[154 


Cuba  Libre 

(1898) 

America,  hast  thou  forgot  thy  birth, 

Thy  long  reluctant  fight  for  liberty, 

The  starved  and  ragged  ranks  that  wrenched  thee  free, 

Cheered  by  one  nation  prescient  of  thy  worth? 

Thine  enemy,  the  captain  state  on  earth, 

Thy  motherland,  hater  of  tyranny, 

Insanely  ruled,  held  fast  her  child  in  fee 

For  profit, — paid  at  last  by  death  and  dearth. 

Free  land,  speak  thou  to  her  crouched  by  thy  coasts 

Who  would  like  thee  be  free.    Yes,  break  the  chain 

A  parent's  proud  decrepitudes  impose. 

Where  women  war  than  smile  on  Spanish  hosts; 

Where  men  despair  and  leave  the  sweetening  cane, 

And  with  their  sickles  hew  their  hated  foes. 


['55 


Sophocles 

(1892) 

0  Sophocles,  I  would  know  Greek  for  thee 
And  pluck  my  honey  from  the  comb  the  bees 
From  sweet  Hymettus  stored,  where  sunny  seas 
Murmur  the  measures  that  are  joy  to  me. 

1  see  the  gods  reign  in  thy  tragedy: 

They  walk  the  earth  and  whisper  in  the  breeze, 
Thy  world  is  full  of  God  and  suppliant  knees 
And  righteousness  controlling  destiny. 
But  our  sad  times  at  higher  beings  flout; 
We  do  not  snatch  from  heaven  to  feed  the  soul, 
We  cannot  find  a  God  in  anything. 
So  blind  we  do  not  see  our  torch  is  out, 
Our  torch  of  poesy.    The  rich- wrought  bowl 
We  clasp  and  grope  along,  but  cannot  sing. 


156 


England* 

(1909) 

England,  thy  foes  make  boast  of  thy  decline; 
Thy  world-wide  commerce  slackens  its  old  pace, 
Thy  sea-girt  jewel  holds  a  second  place, 
Now  that  our  masters  live  along  the  Rhine. 
No!  Leadership  in  freedom  still  is  thine. 
Mazzini,  Marx — yes,  Manuel,  you  embrace. 
Prophets  and  kings,  in  exile,  seek  thy  face 
And  live  secure  beneath  thy  sheltering  vine. 
If  mind  and  merchants  make  a  new  race  great, 
That  barters  freedom  for  a  tyrant's  smile — 
Then  leap  to  studies;   arm  with  conquering  thought, 
That  nothing  may  destroy  the  only  state 
Where  tyrants  cannot  reach  or  spies  beguile 
And  justice  is  a  goddess  still  unbought. 


*On  remembering  how  Germany  arrested  Russian  radicals  (for  instance, 
Leo  Deutsch),  and  surrendered  them  to  the  police  of  the  Czar,  who 
sent  them  to  Siberia.  Also  on  remembering  how  the  United  States 
imprisoned  citizens  at  the  dictation  of  Porfirio  Diaz — for  instance, 
Carlo  di  Fornaro,  sentenced  to  a  year  on  BlackwelPs  Island  for  writing 
about  a  member  of  the  Diaz  cabinet,  who  was  driven  out,  a  little  later, 
by  the  revolution. 


157 


The  Prophet 

(1892) 

Gold-breasted  meadow  lark,  I  heard  your  call 

From  February  fields  to  frozen  springs 

Of  sun  and  song.    Amid  March  bourgeonings 

A  sparrow  trilled  although  snow  banked  each  wall, 

With  blossom-tide,  now  countless  petals  fall 

Set  whirling  by  the  beat  of  heedless  wings. 

All  day  the  phrebe  to  her  nestling  sings 

And  cattle  roam  afield,  loosed  from  the  stall. 

To  gloomy  skies  they  sang — sparrow  and  lark, 

Impelled  by  tides  of  life  they  felt  pursue, 

Till  warmth  and  song  and  blossom  now  are  here. 

Cry,  prophet  voices!    Bid  the  cold  world  hark! 

Times  you  foretell  when  toil  shall  have  its  due. 

Be  not  afraid;  you  lead  the  advancing  year. 


[158] 


The  Police  Court 

Are  these  Thy  children,  Lord,  this  criminal  row, 

Who  in  the  crowded  court  their  sentence  wait, 

Straining  to  hear  the  judge  pronounce  their  fate, 

And  laugh  or  scowl  or  deep  indifference  show? 

Their  prison  days, — that  fear  is  all  they  know — 

Imprisoned  souls  unheeding  their  fixed  state; 

Poor,  sensual  faces,  weak  and  passionate, 

A  mark  of  Cain,  foredoomed  to  crime  each  brow. 

Ah  no!  Our  crimes  are  not  in  birth's  decree; 

Our  evil  deeds  are  not  the  fruit  full-grown 

Of  seedling  sins  set  out  in  infancy. 

We  are  not  blown  about  as  leaves  are  blown; 

For  our  temptations  tell  us  we  are  free, — 

Thy  children,  God,  since  we  a  choice  are  shown. 


New  Hampshire 

The  harvest  of  our  hills  is  not  their  corn, 
Sweet  maple  sap,  or  fragrant  riven  pine. 
These  granite  outcrops  feed  few  sheep  or  kine; 
Unshepherded  the  flocks  by  beasts  are  torn. 
Here  is  no  wealth  by  sudden  effort  born, 
From  field  or  forest,  river,  mill  or  mine; 
Her  sons  for  cities  or  rich  soil  resign 
Their  brown,  bare  farms,  unyielding  and  forlorn. 
But  where  Chocorua  lifts  its  serrate  peak 
Sharp  into  heaven  above  the  heart-shaped  lake, 
Abundant  crops,  unseen,  clothe  every  knoll. 
Here  city-burdened  lives  their  birthright  seek; 
A  perfumed  peace  with  every  breath  they  take, — 
The  harvest  of  our  hills  is  in  the  soul. 


160] 


To  Mme.  Helen  Hopekirk 

I  see  in  thee  what  Scotland  ever  gave 

Her  chosen  children,  else  in  gifts  so  poor, 

The  music  of  the  mountain  and  the  moor, 

And  the  heart's  echo  her  sweet  poets  have. 

Lest  music's  magic  should  thy  soul  enslave, 

Enkindling  feelings  vague  and  insecure, 

Thy  stern  land  gave,  to  make  her  gifts  endure, 

Conscience  and  thought  deep  toned  as  Fingal's  Cave. 

With  music  dowered,  but  with  mind  as  well, 

I  pray  thee  shock  the  sheaves  of  Scottish  song, 

Bind  with  thy  gold  of  larger  harmony, 

From  scattered  pipes  symphonic  strains  compel, 

As  they  who  do  not  to  our  race  belong, 

Have  waked  to  fame  the  airs  of  Hungary. 


161 


The  White  Hearse* 

Death,  I  have  walked  with  you  through  summer  days, 
Bright  summer  days,  life  leaping  to  its  prime; 
When  fields  laughed  innocent  of  harvest  time, 
And  you  were  banished  from  sweet  country  ways 
Pelted  with  blossoms; — prone,  yet  strong  to  raise 
Your  head  and,  like  your  fallen  parent,  climb 
To  hellish  rule  in  city  streets.    Whose  crime, 
The  myriad  children  each  fair  Summer  slays  ? 
Man's  work,  this  is,  not  God's.    Him  we  forget, 
Housing  our  brethren  like  beasts  of  the  soil, 
Of  beauty  stripped,  of  smiles,  of  youth,  of  health. 
The  curse  of  slavery  is  with  us  yet; 
Which  uses  without  love,  accepts  the  toil, 
Discards  the  life,  and  builds  on  blood  its  wealth. 


*A  baby  dies  every  two  minutes  in  America. 

[162] 


The  White  Slave 

She  walks  the  streets  offering  herself  for  sale. 

Under  her  breath  calls  "Sweetheart,"  while  her  eyes 

Are  eloquent  of  all  a  saint  denies, 

And  her  slow  feet  nor  pleasure  nor  toil  avail. 

So  for  each  fragment  of  the  night,  a  male 

Unripe  or  rotten  in  her  young  arms  lies 

— If,  uncaught,  she  so  long  her  traffic  plies — 

Hating  her  bed  and  fearful  of  the  jail. 

With  day,  her  work  being  done,  her  stocking  filled, 

She  hastens  home  to  place  her  piteous  store 

In  slaver  hands — lover,  protector,  hope. 

His  lust  and  greed  her  woman's  soul  have  killed. 

Slain  motherhood  lies  pallid  at  her  door; 

And  soon  her  other  needs  will  shrink  to  dope. 


Democracy 

Democracy,  those  men  have  done  thee  wrong, 

That  paint  thee  flaunting,  with  a  brutal  face. 

Not  to  Rome's  proletarian  populace, 

Nor  Paris  mobs  that  round  a  red  flag  throng, 

Nor  London  slums  of  saturate  sin  belong 

Such  names — deluded,  pitiable  race — 

Though  in  their  husky  mutterings  we  can  trace 

God  urging  brotherhood  upon  the  strong. 

Democracy  on  law  and  virtue  stands: 

The  home  it  loves  and  children  at  the  knee; 

Its  bread  it  earns,  its  lips  can  speak  in  prayer. 

Though  greed  and  pride  would  bind  its  giant  hands, 

I  trust  the  conscience  of  humanity, 

See  freedom  widen  in  the  people's  care. 


[164] 


The  Snow  Storm 

Nature  unfettered  by  man's  civic  need, 
Swirls  flake  on  flake  of  wonder-working  snow, 
Until  the  city's  life  goes  muffled,  slow, 
And  each  house  worships  fire — its  primal  creed. 
Then  poverty  is  called.    Its  armies  speed, — 
Feet  tied  in  rags,  hands  bare  that  puffed  cheeks  blow- 
To  fight  white  barricades  and  traffic's  foe. 
Ho!  empty  stomachs!    You  at  last  may  feed. 
Preposterous  world!    The  freezing  serve  the  warm. 
The  laborer  walks  to  work  while  idlers  ride; 
And  thin,  pinched  bellies  longest  go  unfed. 
Clean  streets  are  bare  of  children;  foul  streets  swarm. 
The  lame  run  races  and  the  blind  men  guide. 
Great  God!    Is  this  the  world  for  which  Christ  bled? 


165 


Camargo* 

Carved  marble  face,  enraptured  secret  smile, 

In  the  cool  foyer,  silent  and  alone, 

Outside  the  opera's  passion-laden  zone, 

Unguarded  yet  untouched  by  what  is  vile; 

Camargo,  dancer,  mistress  of  each  wile 

That  pleased  a  vicious  court,  was  thy  breast  stone, 

When  arms  of  laughing  youths,  wove  thee  a  throne, 

Scornful  of  pleasure  who  could  kings  beguile  ? 

Inscrutable,  fertile  in  joy,  benign, 

Compassionate  of  lower  human  need, 

With  lithe,  ecstatic  steps  engendering  life; 

Like  nature  pouring  a  seductive  wine, 

Patient  with  sense,  and  folly's  ignorant  greed, 

Knowing  the  soul  is  born  in  sensual  strife. 


*A  most  engaging  bust  of  the  celebrated  danseuse  used  to  decorate  the 
foyer  of  the  Paris  Opera  House. 


[166] 


Progress 

I  saw  a  leader  riding.    O  how  white! 
Whiter  than  fear  could  ever  paint  a  face, 
Muter  than  silence  born  of  long  disgrace, 
Shaven-shorn  from  prison  rode  that  sick  wight. 
Behind  him  marched  his  followers.    Grievous  sight! 
Small,  drunken,  dull,  of  every  alien  race, 
Some  playing  fool  along  a  public  place, 
Starved,  striking  workmen  clamored  for  their  right. 
Disgrace  and  death,  what  end  to  leadership! 
Poor  knave  to  strive  beyond  what  nature  stands, 
But  breaks  or  rots  and  ends  the  savior's  role! 
Poor  souls  whose  leaders  like  themselves  may  slip, 
Whose  progress  is  the  prey  of  tainted  hands! — 
Unless  disgrace  and  death  pay  God  a  toll. 


[167 


The  Pacific 

Fierce  courage  his  and  will  straight  as  a  Rune, 
Who  first  sailed  these  vast  seas  and  did  not  tire. 
Unknown  to  him  his  haven  or  his  hire, 
What  reef,  what  race  might  wreck  him  late  or  soon. 
Clear  skies  above  where  Venus  shone  at  noon, 
Blue  waves  beneath  stained  by  an  Indian  dyer; 
At  night  stars  dripped  from  plunging  spars  like  fire, 
To  wastes  of  water  underneath  the  moon. 
The  unknown  he  explored,  home  years  behind. 
And  what  ahead,  oblivious  wave,  palm  isle? 
Or,  farther  still,  old  loves  endeared  tenfold? 
So  sail  my  soul,  a  fairer  heaven  to  find, 
Whom  comfort,  safety  cannot  long  beguile, 
Seek  new  gods  though  you  never  greet  the  old. 


168 


Songs  from  the  Search   of  Belisarius 

THE  KNIGHT'S  SONG 

My  lady  loves  her  radiant  garden, 
Gently  moves  among  her  flowers, — 
Iris,  poppies,  oleander. 
O  the  garden! 

Sweet,  she  rests  amid  its  sweetness, 
Laughs  and  dreams,  her  face  in  blossoms, 
While  the  sunshine  feeds  rich  colors. 
O  the  sweetness! 

On  the  one  side  flows  a  river, 
Sparkling,  merry.    Boats  bear  on  it 
Companies  of  youths  and  maidens. 
O  the  river! 

And  she,  smiling,  flings  them  flowers, 
Back  they  sing  their  answer  to  her, 
Floating  past  her  with  their  music. 
O  the  music! 


169 


On  the  other  side  a  high-road, 
Toiled  upon  by  horsemen,  footmen; 
Dusty  travelers  know  that  garden. 
O  the  high-road! 

And  the  lady  gives  them  bounty, 
Food  and  wine  and  kindly  speeches, 
Till,  refreshed,  they  journey  onward. 
O  the  toilers! 

So  she  gives  the  happy  pleasure, 
And  the  weary  soft  refreshment, 
O  my  lady,  from  your  garden, 
Give  me  love! 


170] 


THE  GIRL'S  SONG 

Tell  me!    If  you  found  me  in  a  mart 
In  Asia,  where  mild-faced  camels  pass, 
Bearing  slave-girls  from  far-off  Circass; 
Tell  me  now,  yes  truly,  from  your  heart! 
As  we  stood  there,  shamefaced,  meek, 

You,  a  prince,  espy  me, 
Bartered  for  by  merchants  sleek; 

Would  you  buy  me? 

Tell  me!    If  you  found  me  where  men  sin 
In  cities;  day's  weary  toil,  at  night, 
Changing  for  unchaste,  unblest  delight; 
Tell  me  as  you  hope  my  soul  to  win! 
For  what  others  offered  you, 

Love,  could  you  refuse  me? 
Spite  of  all  that  they  might  do, 

Would  you  choose  me? 

Dainty  women,  if  they  passed  your  way 
Or  stopped?    Queens  and  ladies,  fair  to  see, 
Looked  at  you,  and  smiled  imploringly? 
Tell  me,  for  I  cannot  longer  stay! 
Would  you  close  your  precious  eyes 

Tight  to  their  vanity, 
Shapely  breasts  and  marble  thighs, 

And  dream  of  me? 


THE  CYPRIOT'S  SONG 

Two  things  the  gods  cannot  destroy, 

Although  they  envy  human  joy, 

And  blast  men's  smiles, 

Washing  their  face  with  tears; — 

Beauty  of  women,  that  beguiles, 

Strength  of  men,  through  youth's  brief  years; 

Eyes  of  brightness, 

Limbs  of  lightness. 

These  must  the  gods  desire; 

Or  end  the  race  they  made 

And  quench  the  altar-fire, 

Where  sacrifice  is  paid. 


172] 


Song  from  the  Return  of  Odysseus 

DORIS  SINGS 

When  the  first  soul,  from  earth,  reached  the  immortals, 
Tearfully  torn  from  the  arms  that  embraced  her, 
Led  by  blind  death  to  a  world  unimagined, 
Fear  overcame  her. 

Fear  bowed  her  body,  reluctant,  unwilling. 
Fear  sank  her  feet  in  the  asphodel  meadows. 
Fear  tore  death's  hand  to  untwine  his  cold  fingers, 
All  unavailing. 

She  had  known  life  where  the  sun  and  the  moon  shone. 
She  had  known  love  and  had  suckled  her  children. 
She  had  known  sleep  in  the  arms  of  her  husband, 
And  these  sufficed  her. 

None  in  the  halls  of  death  bade  her  sweet  welcome. 
None  kissed  her  lips  or  enfolded  her  man- wise, 
And  her  cold  breasts  missed  the  cheek  of  her  children, 
There  where  the  gods  sat. 


There  where  the  gods  sat  grave  and  exalted, 
On  the  high  thrones  that  beheld  all  and  ruled  all, 
In  the  gold  light  that  diffused  from  their  faces, 
Gods  who  were  angry. 

Having  sent  death  lest  mankind  be  immortal, 
Might  laughing  live,  loving  their  busier  country, 
Drinking  the  wind  and  the  sunlight  like  nectar, 
Happy,  undying: 

Now  that  death  brought  the  sad  soul  to  her  makers,, 
What  should  they  do,  lest  she  still  be  immortal, 
Living  like  gods,  with  the  gods  in  their  dwelling? 
Death  now  dismayed  them: 

Coming  so  blindly  within  their  bright  presence, 
Standing  so  grimly  before  their  gay  scepters, 
Dumb  till  the  gods  should  decree  his  doings, 
Death,  awful  servant. 


[174] 


Holding  the  soul  though  it  trembled  and  shuddered, 
Holding  it  hard  when  it  wept  and  pulled  backward: 
Silently  waiting  the  will  of  the  great  gods, 
Plagued  by  creation. 

Zeus  at  last  thundered,  settling  their  difference. 
Hermes  he  bade  quickly  bring  him  a  balance, 
Golden,  the  work  of  the  cripple  Hephaestus, 
Golden  and  even. 

Then  every  god  longed  to  hold  the  fair  balance, 
Gleaming,  well  finished,  uninjured  by  usage, 
Arbiter  be  for  the  soul's  unplanned  future, 
Weighing  and  judging. 

First  Aphrodite  begged  Zeus  she  might  hold  it, 
Then  would  the  scales  mark  the  soul's  earthly  beauty. 
Tempting  she  stood,  for  she  knew  that  no  creature 
Matched  her  perfection. 


But  the  great  father  shook  his  curled  temples, 
Laughed  back  at  sweet  Aphrodite,  the  wave-born, 
"Beauty  on  earth  is  not  weighed  in  the  balance 
Of  heavenly  beauty." 

Then  bright  Apollo,  god  of  all  gifts  of  mind, 
Who  gives  the  Muses  divine  inspiration, 
Whose  fiery  car  the  full-limbed  Hours  follow, 
Reached  for  the  balance. 

But  Zeus  forbade,  he  had  heard  the  shell's  music 
Played  by  Apollo  and  knew  that  no  mortal 
Dreamed  of  the  harmonies  of  the  high  heavens, 
Apollo's  vision. 

Then  Rhadamanthus,  stern  keeper  of  records, 
Measurer  he  by  the  rod  and  the  letter, 
Darkly  demanded  the  scales  .mete  his  judgments, 
That  he  might  punish. 


But  Zeus  turned  from  him,  cold,  inattentive, 
Looking  for  one  who  sat  near  Aphrodite: 
Eros,  her  offspring,  or  Love  as  some  call  him, 
Humble  but  mighty. 

Bade  Hermes  place  in  his  hands  the  gold  balance: 
Bade  Eros  stand  by  the  soul  to  discover 
How  much  of  love  it  had  wrought  and  had  lived  by, 
What  for  love  suffered. 

Then  the  boy  Eros,  smiled  up  at  his  mother, 
Sweet  Aphrodite,  daintily  took  the  scales 
From  the  shrewd  Hermes,  stood  before  Zeus  while  he 
Beckoned  the  spirit. 

Then  death  relaxed  his  cold  clutch  on  her  fingers, 
And  the  glad  soul  quickly  ran  to  the  love-god. 
Naked  she  stood  by  him  and  the  gold  balance, 
God  of  her  worship. 


[177] 


Then  the  scales  made  by  the  cripple  Hephaestus, 
Gleaming,  well  finished,  uninjured  by  usage, 
Tipped  till  the  arms  of  the  balance  stood  upright, 
Heavy  with  love  pangs. 

And  all  the  gods  in  amazement  and  wonder, 
Looked  at  the  life  newly  born  to  their  number; 
Looked  at  young  Eros,  holding  the  balance, 
Clasping  the  mortal. 

And  through  the  air  came  a  song  new  in  heaven, 
So  sweet,  Apollo  listened,  attentive, 
While  all  the  Muses  sought  to  remember — 
Songs  as  of  children. 

And  on  the  soul  there  appeared  such  a  beauty 
That  Aphrodite  turned  her  head,  grew  paler, 
And  Rhadamanthus  snapped  his  rough  measure. 
Fear  overcame  them. 


[178] 


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